


Pacific Time

by Poose



Series: Technosocial [3]
Category: Social Network (2010)
Genre: Abuse, Age Difference, Angst, Dark, Dom/sub, Drugs, F/M, Femdom, Future Fic, Hurt, Incest, M/M, Money, Older Characters, Post-Canon, Post-Movie(s), Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-31
Updated: 2011-05-31
Packaged: 2017-10-19 23:37:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 52,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/206446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poose/pseuds/Poose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A companion piece to One Foot on the Ground. Picks up with Eduardo in Singapore, post-depositions, where he is trying to find some purpose in his life. And, you know, have some sweaty rough sex along the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Singapore

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed warnings for Chapter Eight.

It was in the spring semester of his senior year that Eduardo decided he no longer liked _boys_. Specifically, blue-eyed boys with unruly hair who you love and you love and who fucking _cut_ you to the bone with their manipulative horseshit.

Not that there was ever more than the one, not really. Not ever.

So Eduardo has spent the last half of a decade doing precisely the opposite of what most guys his age would do. Most guys who are in their mid-twenties would be chasing them younger and younger, going to all-ages nights at bars, looking for the lone boy standing by the bar waiting to be bought a beer and told, for the first time, that he is beautiful.

He could do that, beyond easily enough, if he lived back in the States. Miami is _full_ of it, hot blond boys in flip-flops and board shorts, roomfuls of them, stacked three and four deep at the bar while horrible house music plays.

Eduardo does not want to live in Miami, though, ever, ever, ever fucking again.

Nor does he want anything to do with the East Coast. Not after college. He wants to get as far away from the tristate area as possible, because New York is ruined for him, and New York is the epicenter of the financial industry in the US.

Chicago is too cold. And Boston is just piddly.

He could do Houston, but he has never felt comfortable in the south.

And he could find a scene like that in Los Angeles, or possibly San Diego, and definitely in the Bay Area.

Like fuck if he's going to go _there._

He won't even go back for the shareholders meetings, which he is now legally entitled to attend. He sends a proxy named Janice who reports back to him and a legal team, which he now keeps on retainer, just in case.

Eduardo Saverin is for fucking sure never, ever, _ever_ going to get the rug yanked out from underneath of him again.

So he does not try to hang on to his own youth by chasing after someone else's, because Edaurdo is only twenty-six, but he feels like he has already lived several lifetimes, like he is old and weary in his bones.

He refuses to get sucked in by the way the light glints off someone's hair, the awkward stance of the newly legal drinker, out at a club for the first time, the way they need to be taken care of written so clearly in every line of their posture.

But that is fine, because that is not at all what Eduardo wants, anyways.

He has traveled all over, flown from Dallas to Dubai, Tokyo to Toronto, Berlin to Bali.

That was what he did after he graduated, finally. He pulled his shit together and graduated, because he had to.

He took his quarter of a million dollars, his _fucking money_ no matter what his father said, and he flew around the world and partied with drug dealers and heiresses on boats and in clubs. Beach parties in Phuket, circuit parties in Amsterdam.

It was all right for a year or so.

And then he got tired of being rootless, tired of feeling so shallow, and he called his father who phoned in a favor and they got him a job doing entry-level financial futures trading.

Singapore is a flesh-pot. Not as bad as Thailand, of course, but anything you want, you can find, pretty much. Except for chewing gum, which is illegal.

Eduardo does not mind. He has never been very fond of gum.

Nor is he fond of the scores of smooth-skinned boys, Chinese and Malay and Thai, who haunt the bars, dark-eyed and handsy.

Eduardo does not want boys, is the thing. Not since that one.

Men, however. Those are rather a different story.

For the first six months there was no one to speak of. He put in sixteen hour days and went out with the other junior associates to bars. They ordered bottles of premium vodka for the table, went to steak houses and charged vintages from the Rhône Valley to the firm.

Eduardo did not care for the shady things that he knew went on, because it was one thing to be debased and immature during a bacchanal on the beaches of Southeast Asia, and quite another to be grinding on a trio of Cambodian prostitutes at a late-night club with your colleagues.

So Eduardo has never been very much into that whole scene.

He would rather be in his apartment, on the 37th floor with windows that do not open, sealed shut from the inside. He has not got anything there, really. It does not feel like home, because he has no things besides his suits and books and laptop.

He likes to think it is minimalist, but that is not precisely true.

He keeps it like that because he thinks almost every morning that he will get up, in the cold light of dawn and go to put on a starched shirt and pick out a tie that maybe this will be the day that he just runs.

His father would be disappointed all over again, if that was the case. He will barely look at him even now, even after he won back 600 million dollars that he never should have let go of in the first place.

Eduardo is not living a 600 million dollar lifestyle. He has an expense account and his suits are made twice a year to measure and he does not have any expensive habits like hookers or cocaine or yachts.

He goes home late at night and he suffers from insomnia, so he reads on the couch, or in bed.

He likes popular science books. Those are his favorites.

He always wishes that he had studied geology or something.

But when people pass through, important clients who want to be entertained in the debauched ways of overgrown frat boys, then there will be older men there with them, from Spain or Germany or Canada or England or South Africa or America. And the vast majority of them are excited by the hookers, they want to go to massage parlors, clubs.

Some do not.

Sometimes there will be a quartet of them, who have been stuffed with crab and porterhouse and then want to go to the live shows.

Those nights Eduardo has to play like he wants to be there, because it is still, technically, a work function.

But when the others whoop and grope, sometimes one of them will look bored, and they will say something vague like, "Not really your scene, then?" and they will smile at him, with white-capped teeth, their hairlines close and perfect, their shaves professional, their cuffs French and flawless, and their eyes crinkle up at the corners and they say, "Is it yours?"

Because they are expensive, and experienced, and they don't dole out shit chat-up lines, they don't stumble over words -- the kind of men who command attention in board rooms, in shareholder meetings.

Eduardo does not know, some of the time, whether he wants to fuck them, or be them.

It's quite possibly a combination of the two.

The first time it happened was with an American with a voice like the grate of sandstone and graying temples. His stubble was growing back by the time they finished with dinner.

They were sitting next to each other in one of the many, many clubs and this other man, a Washington D.C. native, said, his eyes on Eduardo's neck, "Does everyone like this scene?"

"Mostly," Eduardo had said, rolling his glass between his palms and looking across to the dance floor.

"Do you?" he asked.

"It's all right," he answered, and then added, "it's loud, though."

He glanced over. The man was staring at him, his gaze determined and frightening.

"It's quiet at the hotel," he said, not looking away.

"Okay," Eduardo said, answering almost immediately.

They got a taxi back.

It was all very civilized. No one touched anyone in public. Nothing could be monitored, overheard. None of the other associates saw them leaving together, it being assumed that by that point in the evening, they would all go their separate ways once they found a suitable companion for the next few hours or the night.

There was nothing said in the taxi that could be construed as anything other than innocent or business-related.

Nothing in the lobby, nothing in the elevator, nothing for a long time in the room, even.

There was more scotch drunk standing up rather than sitting down, and then there was the other man taking the glasses away and pulling out Eduardo's tie and wrapping it around his hand and tugging on it.

And kissing that was deep and furious but somehow still slow (so different from boys) because with men, you see, with men there is this thing called  
certainty.

Being undressed by someone who knew what the fuck they were doing was another.

Someone who did not fumble and accidentally yank off buttons, someone who knew that you can't just leave crêpe de chine trousers pooled up on the floor.

With the first one it was like that -- the dark haired Washingtonian with the cough of an ex-smoker who took off both their shirts and draped them over a chair and then sat on the edge of his California King bed with 600-thread count sheets made from Egyptian flax and mouthed at Eduardo's crotch.

He pinned Eduardo to the bed with his hands and scraped his teeth over every inch of his bare chest and then down further, with his tongue.

That was also different, because with boys it is all about getting your dick in someone's mouth or vice versa and getting off, quickly, impatient.

Not slowly licking between their legs and then raising themselves up to hover over with your legs hooked around their outer arms while they fuck you.

Eduardo liked that he was patient, that he cradled his head in his hands and smelled like expensive cologne.

Those are the things Eduardo likes. He likes surety, and confidence, and long silences where he does not have to talk and feel like a child.

Eduardo likes this certainty. He likes being handled in this way, like he is a beautiful object to treat with reverence.

Well, sometimes he does.

Not always.

Not with all of them.

There are dry spells and a the inevitable run of bad lays, because that is how these things work, no matter what age bracket one is dealing with. The drinks are better quality, the small talk is less stupid, but there are plenty of times Eduardo is less interested than he should be. Contact details that he's been given that he deletes from his inbox, business cards that he burns with the matchbooks left in the ashtrays of expensive hotels.

Because Eduardo has this other rule now, in his life, that he will no longer settle for mediocrity in anything. He wants nothing average, nothing below par. Everything has to be perfect, and if he goes home with someone who is a lousy kisser, or who comes too fast, or suffers from performance anxiety, he will stay the night, out of politeness, but he will not call them back when they pass through town the next time, two months into the future.

But some he does call back.

And with some of them it becomes a routine.

They are always there on business, though they will extend a trip a day on either end for pleasurable pursuits. Golf, perhaps, if they like such things, or deep-sea fishing, or gambling.

And there are some that he sees, every six to eight weeks, or once a fiscal quarter, and they treat him very nicely, indeed.

They take him to restaurants with red leather booths and off-white tablecloths and silver that sits heavy in your hands, and they talk in quiet murmurs and the menus don't even have prices and they drink wine and then coffee and then cognac and then they take a taxi somewhere and Eduardo is fussed over, like a table setting.

The sex is practiced and it is always incredible. Everything is done in sequence, one step leading inevitably to the next. Eduardo is usually on the bottom, usually with his eyes closed, while someone ten or twenty or sometimes thirty years older uses those extra years of experience on him.

It's all technically perfect.

The ones he looks forward to the most, though, it does not go that way.

 

*

There is an Afrikaner based in Johannesburg named Jan who has deep-set parentheses on the sides of his mouth and who Eduardo could feel mentally undressing him even when they were still at the office. The stiff collar of his shirt started to feel too tight, chafing against his flushed skin.

He unbuttoned two buttons and loosened his tie en route to the restaurant, because he was so hot, because every time he looked over there were eyes narrowed in his direction and Eduardo has been with enough men to know that look.

It is the look of the predatory deep-sea fish. The shark, or the marlin.

So when they are at dinner that first time, a huge group of them, the deafening noise of sure-footed masculinity all around them, Eduardo is stabbing at a deconstructed Caesar salad and Jan leans over across the table and says, "I don't have any interest in remaining with the group after we finish here, do you?"

Eduardo looks up and Jan tilts his head and he somehow manages to form the words, "Not really."

Jan nods and goes back to his own diver scallop sashimi.

Over entrees he leans in again, so quiet, and says, "I want to see where you live."

Eduardo is startled by this, very much so, but he nods his assent and they skip dessert. Jan leaves first, pleading off with jet lag. He makes his way outside ten minutes later, having made similar excuses.

"To your place?" he says, stubbing out a cigarette as the doorman hails them a taxi.

He lets Eduardo get in first.

The taxi is air conditioned, but Eduardo feels more unkempt than he has in months, his hair starting to poof up from the humidity, sweat stains forming under the arms of his jacket, soaking through his undershirt.

Jan accepts a whiskey with ice and looks through the stacks of books scattered about the place. There are not any bookshelves.

"Shall we sit?" he asks, and Eduardo has not had anyone in his space in so long that he completely forgets his manners.

"Please," he says, gesturing to the sofa. "Should I turn on the air conditioning?" he asks, "it's pretty hot."

"No," Jan says, putting his glass in front of him and reaching out a hand, "I want to know what you smell like."

Eduardo does not know what to say in response to that.

"Take your jacket off," he says, and Eduardo does so.

Eduardo's mouth is dry and he is standing a few feet away and he feels young, suddenly, differently.

It has been a while since he felt like his knees might give out in the presence of someone else.

He is sweaty because it is May in Singapore. When he thinks about it everywhere he has ever lived has been hot and humid. Muggy. Tropical.

Rio and Miami and now here, at the tip of the Malay Peninsula.

Boston was only hot in the summer, just like New York was.

And Jan is beckoning Eduardo over with his fingers and he walks over and is about to sit down. The older man stills him with a hand on his thigh. And he moves Eduardo in front of him, firm hands on his hips and Eduardo has been hard in his pants the whole taxi ride over, sweat building between his ass cheeks and beading on his top lip.

He runs his thumbs up Eduardo's thighs, deliberate, dragging, and under the hem of his shirt. The only sounds in the room are breaths and the quiet flip of the ceiling fan, barely stirring the thick air.

Jan undoes his belt, his gaze fixed on Eduardo's stomach, so very slowly. He draws down the zipper of his trousers and he lets them fall onto the floor, holding his hands out to the sides as they swish down his legs. And then he leans in and noses against his crotch, deeply inhaling the smell of him from his black briefs, the same style he's been sporting since college. He rubs his face against Eduardo's balls and mouths damply at his cock, which is so hard, trapped underneath this layer of fabric steeped through with sweat and spit.

He traces a finger up and down the shaft as Eduardo clenches his hands up into fists, until he can feel himself leaking through the fabric, getting wet like a girl. Jan swipes his thumb over the head and draws up another pulse of precome. Eduardo genuinely thinks he might come in his pants from those touches, even more so when Jan says, in his clipped voice, "God, you've just  
 _soaked_ these through, haven't you, Eduardo?" and he does not know if he is supposed to answer.

Jan leans back and spreads his legs and pats his knee. "Come sit," he says, and Eduardo hesitates for a second, but the raised eyebrows of the man across from him are all it takes for him to be tottering into his lap, drunk with arousal more than anything.

He walks his hands up Eduardo's tie and then undoes it, pulling it off in one slow motion. So now he is sitting, wearing only his shirt and his underwear, sitting on the lap of a fully clothed man God knows how many years his senior, who is looking at the label on the tie with curiosity.

"Are you particularly attached to this?" he asks, holding it out for inspection. Eduardo coughs trying to make the words.

"Not especially, no," he says.

And Jan asks in this cold way that makes Eduardo's tongue go numb.

"May I use it on you?"

 _Fuck_ , he thinks, visions of blindfolds and makeshift restraints flooding his mind, making his spine buzz with anticipation.

He has always enjoyed a bit of restraint.

Eduardo really, _really_ likes bottoming.

And he likes to be _taken_ is the thing.

The thought of that makes him so insanely hard.

Of being ravaged.

 _Used,_ even, sometimes.

So he is nodding, nodding as Jan is laying him down on his sofa that has never seen this sort of action and drawing down his underwear until they are around his knees.

Eduardo puts his hands over his head, expectantly.

Nothing happens.

Not to his hands.

Because Jan is looping his tie (a nice tie, of course, Prada, probably, always Prada these days) around his balls, over his erection and trailing it across his stomach, tying it in a tight bow like Eduardo is a present.

There is a swish of expensive silk and then everything goes tight and he feels feverish, rancid with want.

"Oh, God," he says, feeling slick fingers tracing over his erection, down to his ass, moving inside. His legs are parted but held together by his underwear, acting like another restraint, and he can feel his cock leaking against his stomach.

He cannot let his legs fall open like he wants to but his mouth is open and he is moaning, moaning even harder when Jan slips his mouth around him and swallows him down, hot, two fingers crooked against his prostate.

Every inch of him is screaming for release. To get off, to relieve the pressure threatening to choke him.

He gasps when Jan adds a third finger, pressing forward.

"You are gorgeous," he says, rising up to suck a bruise into Eduardo's collarbone.

Eduardo practically sobs when he pulls his fingers out.

"Turn over," he says. "I want to fuck you from behind."

And he is scrabbling to listen, to obey, even, crossing his arms at the wrist and offering himself up.

Jan is still fully dressed.

He must be rummaging around in his pants and pulling himself out, because Eduardo can feel him, hard against his ass.

He is naked from the waist down, trussed like a chicken and his hair is wet with sweat.

Eduardo has never felt more like a whore.

Even though they are in his apartment, and everything is perfectly consensual. Something feels different. Something inside makes him feel like this whole encounter will end with postcoital cigarettes and a stack of fifties on the countertop.

And Eduardo feels a little frightened, as Jan is pressing inside of him, hands wrapping around to pull him in by his inner thighs, as he is fucking him so slow and sliding and balls-deep on every stroke, he feels a little frightened by just how much he likes this.

How there have been no words. No words and no doubts and no feelings other than want.

And he feels so wanted, like this, splayed on the couch with his ass in the air, being fucked by a rich man in the never-darkness of a May Malay night, he feels so fucking _good_.

Good enough to cry out when Jan runs a finger up from his thigh and pushes it in alongside his dick. "Jesus," he says, "you have the most amazing ass."

Eduardo is seeing spots behind his eyes, his need to come so acute, the loop of sodden silk keeping him from doing so, and he hears Jan groan and grunt and say, "Fuck," bottoming out inside of him and shuddering through his orgasm.

Eduardo shakes as he pulls out.

"Can I smoke?" he says, after a moment, Eduardo still on his hands and knees. He manages to rasp out, "If you have to," but really he wants to say _get me off, you asshole_.

But this other part of him loves not being allowed, yet.

Jan pulls him back onto his lap and unties the tie, gently. His underwear are dangling from one ankle and he kicks them off onto the floor.

Jan takes out a cigarette pack and lights one. Eduardo is trembling, the smell of smoke making the room feel even more close and hot.

"Put your arms around my neck," Jan says, and Eduardo does so. He smokes, grinning, ashing into an empty soda can. When he has finished he leans in to kiss Eduardo. He says, "Spread your legs for me, Eduardo," and he does as he's instructed.

And then the taunting stops, as he slides his fingers back in, Eduardo's ass still loose and wet from before, and he moans and says, almost immediately, the relief so great, "Shit, shit, I'm gonna--" and Jan says, "That's good, come for me, Eduardo" and he grabs his hands tighter and the room spins and his eyes snap shut and he is coming so hard that the world goes white.

He shakes as he comes, shakes as a hand finds the small of his back and lowers him down to the couch, legs still splayed out.

The room feels even hotter than before, but, like anyone who lives a degree away from the equator, he knows that sweat actually cools you down.

And Eduardo is very, very sweaty.

He is not hot anymore, but Jesus, he is really quite sweaty.

And that was good.

It was _really_ good.

He lies there for what feels like a long time, drained from socializing and boozing, schmoozing, fucking, and maybe falls asleep for a little while.

He wakes up on his side, a hand under his ear and an arm flung over his eyes. Someone is softly stroking his ankle, and he jolts awake, thinking he needs to leave and go back to his own apartment before he realizes that they are already _at_ his apartment.

The light pollution makes it hard to figure out the time. He grunts.

Jan has been reading a book, Brian Cox on physics, and he puts his forefinger in to mark the place and says, "you're awake!" Eduardo nods, glances around. He is still butt naked, his skin itching. His scratches at his stomach. Jan's eyes dart down to follow his fingers and he says, "we should get you to bed." Eduardo yawns. He has work in the morning.

 _Fuck_.

Jan puts the book down and turns Eduardo so that his feet are on the floor, and then he helps him up. Eduardo follows him into the bedroom, exhausted. Jan lays him in the bed -- really just a mattress and a box spring stacked on the floor-- and arranges a pillow under his head.

He snuggles down into it and drifts in and out of consciousness as a cool cloth wipes him clean. It leaves damp traces on his skin, making the hairs on his arms and thighs and stomach prickle up.

He yawns again, and then sinks down with a happy sigh, drawing up a little chuckle from the other man. He touches Eduardo's forehead, lightly and then he says, to his still-hot cheek, "I'll be back in a few weeks. May I see you again, then, Eduardo?"

Eduardo grins sleepily and shakes his head _yes_.

"Excellent," Jan says, pushing himself up. "I'll see myself out."

That night he sleeps more soundly than he has ages.

He goes to work like usual, the next day, and all the following week, for two weeks.

After two weeks he is bored on a Saturday and goes to the movies and then to a bookstore.

And when he gets back to his apartment someone has been there, moving men, from the furniture store.

They have lifted the bed up into a proper bedframe, with slats of dark-polished wood and knobs on each corner. There is an email, as well, from a .za address, that reads simply.

 _Hoping this will come in handy during my next visit. I'll reserve a table at Fifty-Three for eight._

Eduardo puts his Blackberry back in his pocket and touches the wood gingerly, like it might shock him.

A week passes and he does not sleep as well as he did the few before. He tries to jerk off into the sticky circle of his own hand, but it is too muggy and unpleasant, and he can't quite get there, in his head.

In his head it is hard to replay these brief encounters with expensive men, who make his synapses sing and his brain go melty.

He wishes that was what he saw when he touched himself, but that has never been the case.

Edaurdo knows that he is gorgeous. He goes to the gym and gets massages twice a week and he looks flawless, usually, despite all of the heat.

So it is very easy for him to meet people, when he decides that going out would be easier than taking another freezing shower, easier than channel surfing until three in the morning, easier than pretending to read articles online about particle physics or changes in mortgage-backed securities trading. Of course, he wants to know what people are doing, back in America, people like his sister, or his cousins, some of whom are getting married to men he has never met and having babies he has yet to see.

He does not go back, because he works too hard and does not take any vacation time. He pleads off when his mother calls, telling her he can't spare the lost days to cross the ocean, when that is not, strictly speaking, true.

Eduardo has never been a lurker, a prowler. Not like the jaguar. He is certainly not a piranha.

So three weeks of waiting and it is the start of June and raining all the time, and he goes out. To the Sofitel bar, with its spectacular viewing balcony and its high ceilings and single malts, and he sits at the bar and sips, looking.

It doesn't take long for a girl to swoop down, a lovely girl, but he shakes his head. Another time he might buy her a drink, not to seal the deal, or anything. Just to talk. Paying for a hooker without the hooking is exactly the kind of mushy-hearted bullshit his father would hate.

Eduardo doesn't even care. He's tired of trying to seem callous. He makes his money and reads his books and takes care of himself.

There is someone after forty minutes.

He is English, the north all but bred out of his accent by public school, and he gets a whiskey soda and sits two seats over, swizzling his straw.

"Local?" he asks, after a moment, and Eduardo nods.

"East Asia. Saverin, Eduardo Saverin," he says, extending a hand. The other man has a dry palm.

"HSBC," he says, in return. "Peter Andrews."

"Pleasure." Eduardo drains his glass.

"Another?" Peter asks, already gesturing with a twitch of his forefinger.

Eduardo stares at his hands for a full beat before realizing he is doing it.

"Sure," he says, "Thanks."

He moves over to the adjacent seat.

The other man, Peter, is very nice looking. He seems average in the face but his eyes are full of deviance and laughter.

Eduardo decides right away that he likes Peter.

He likes how he drums his fingertips on the bar, rhythmic like the rainstorms outside, and he tells Eduardo stories about growing up in Lancashire, about his ex, who he lived with in Switzerland for a while, _getting fat off chocolate_ , he laughed and who was utterly mad, but _so charming, really._

Eduardo has never been able to fathom how someone could talk so easily about someone who was once in their life.

He is a blank slate. The blue screen before the credits of a film begin.

By day he deals in digital numbers and watching the markets -- _APX up, NASDAQ down_ \-- watching for patterns, blips, indices.

Alone he tries to seek solace in the magnitude of the universe, the wild uncertainty of numerical principles.

And with others he is trying to find the right calculus to make something stick again.

He is not looking for love. He is looking, simply, for the right way to balance the equation.

Eduardo knows that it is a numbers game. It is just a question of numbers. Because he is very attractive, and he looks good, and when he goes out, statistically, there will be at least one man out of every dozen who looks at him a little longer.

Not all of them approach him.

Some are not, of course, attractive.

They are jowly, or fat, or just plain ugly.

Those men can find solace with someone else, someone they have to pay for.

Back in America or England or Russia or China they no doubt get laid all the time.

Because it remains a truism, even in 2010, that there is no such thing as an ugly rich man.

But Eduardo is _quite_ rich.

His numbers are always in the black.

And he is a sure thing. Every night, every time. From the time the first drink is placed on a cocktail napkin in front of him, Eduardo leans against the bar, his hips jutting out to the front, his silhouette as perfect as a picture in Italian Vogue, and he says, with the drape of his posture, that he is a sure thing.

Eduardo knows how to play the numbers.

With the Englishman, Peter, it is not hurried. They drink and they talk and Eduardo can feel himself grow loose and warm, not just from alcohol or heat, but from company. Laughter.

It's pretty nice.

It's just as nice when they do leave, eventually, when Peter does not act afraid to touch him, when he places his hand on the small of Eduardo's exquisitely suited back and steers him into the elevators. He keeps it there on the ride up to the twentieth floor, through the walk to the room his hand lingers there with just a touch of pressure, and that makes Eduardo feel very nice, indeed.

The room is lovely, capacious, furnished in shades of dove gray and camel, nods to the Asian locale with hints of red.

Eduardo feels at home in these rich hotels, devoid of personality, the detritus of the everyday, more than he ever does at his apartment.

People are always leaving hotels, checking in, checking out, coming, going.

He is drifting, thinking about this and Peter is saying his name, several times, and Eduardo blinks, rapidly and says, "Sorry?" and Peter chuckles.

His brown eyes crinkle up and the corners and he leans over and touches Eduardo's face and cups his cheek and says, "You were off in your head there for a minute." He starts to apologize, make excuses, because even here he needs to be polite, remember himself, who he is.

Eduardo knows that manners, like appearances, matter.

But the words are not coming because Peter is scratching the back of his neck and kissing him and it is fantastic. He tastes like whiskey and his fingers are long. He kisses Eduardo for a long time, like he is trying to learn the shape of his mouth, and breaks away every few moments to press his forehead to Edaurdo's own. He rakes his hands through Eduardo's hair and then they kiss their way over to the bed.

And Peter takes his own clothes off, he takes Eduardo's clothes off until they are both in just their underwear, rubbing their bodies together and never stopping kissing. Eduardo is gasping for air by the time Peter pulls his briefs down, because he has been kissed so much that his lungs cannot get enough oxygen.

He is naked and Peter's brown eyes glint and he kisses his way down Eduardo's front, asking with his expression and Eduardo nods, eagerly. He spreads his legs so willingly for that. When someone wants to tongue his ass, he is so eager. _No better than a whore, really,_ he thinks, momentarily.

He cannot think, though, now, with Peter eating him out.

For a long time.

Until he comes from it, once, seeing stars.

And then he is open and wet enough to fuck with just a condom.

Peter pushes Eduardo's left knee to his chest so that he can seat himself fully inside of him, and then he uses his shin for leverage, barely thrusting at all. Letting gravity do the work. Letting Eduardo's ass -- which is "so fucking tight, pet, God," he says, half a dozen times as he fucks him -- letting his ass _milk_ him until Eduardo is hard again, until he looks down and says, firmly, "bring yourself off," and he shudders to touch himself, squirms when Peter hits his prostate and says, teasing, "You're a quiet one, aren't you?" and Eduardo cannot say _anything._

He angles his hips, pushes down hard on Eduardo's knee, and then it is a shower of rain and the sparks of metal on asphalt and the sound of breaking glass and the infinite night of a metropolitan cityscape and the perfection of geometry and he can feel Peter move, all the way inside and then he does cry out, because it really is incredible.

" _There_ it is," Peter says, breathless, "There, there you go, baby."

"There," he rasps, "there, come, good boy, good, such a good good boy."

He does.

He not only feels good, he is good.

God, _he's so good_.

He can feel Peter come, even as he is spinning in darkness.

They lie there for a while and then he starts to say something about showers and leaving and Peter shakes his head. He pulls out and ties up the condom and throws it away, in the toilet.

And then he gets them both tiny bottles of Evian from the minibar and he lies back down, puts Eduardo's head on his chest and kisses the top of his head and says, "stay, we'll watch MSNBC."

Eduardo's silence is enough of a yes. He falls asleep on Peter's chest listening to the forecasts for Tokyo.

He wakes up because he can smell coffee. It smells incredible.

You can't find Cuban roast in Singapore, so his mother sends it to him in the mail.

"Good morning," Peter says, as Eduardo sits straight up and reaches out his hand, eyes still closed. He grunts and Peter chuckles.

"Here," he says, guiding Eduardo's hand to a coffee cup.

It takes a few sips before his brain starts to register the details. Not that he was drunk last night, far from it. He just slept well. Hard.

"It's good," he says, motioning to the cup.

"I'm glad," Peter says. "Can't stand the stuff, myself. Consummately English."

Eduardo looks around the room as Peter sits down next to him. He is drinking tea, from a teacup. It's -- well, it's _cute_. Peter is wearing wire-framed glasses and a bathrobe. His laptop is open, as is his suitcase.

"Are you leaving?" Eduardo says, drinking his coffee.

Peter grins, and then puts down his cup on the trolley. He puts his free hand on Eduardo's thigh and rubs his thumb against the muscle. Eduardo's leg twitches when he does that.

"I've got a bit of time," he says, moving his hand up to Eduardo's face and kissing him. Eduardo is not self-conscious of his morning breath too badly, but he does gulp another swig of coffee before putting his cup down. He burns his tongue a little bit, so each time Peter licks into his mouth it stings at the back.

Edaurdo is wearing just his underwear and all the hairs on his arms prickle when Peter runs the backs of his fingers over them. He kisses Eduardo for a long time, laying him back down on the bed and touching him all over. His bathrobe is falling open and he is completely naked underneath. Eduardo wants to touch his cock but he doesn't want to make any space between them, doesn't want Peter to stop moving across his jaw, left side to right, biting slack-mouthed along his face.

He sighs when Peter pulls his briefs down and tugs on his feet until he is at the edge of the bed. His legs fall open of their own accord as Peter tongues him, and he fucking  
 _looks_ at him, while he does it, from between his knees on the floor and Eduardo whimpers.

Peter grabs lube and starts fingering him, two fingers right away since he's already relaxed, and he stretches his arms overhead, the tingle in his belly reverberating up to his armpits.

Peter is more focused this morning, circling his fingers around Eduardo's prostate until he is leaking and panting, "Please, God, I'm good, _please_."

He gulps in air as Peter stands up, tears open a condom packet with his teeth, spitting the wrapper aside with a cocked eyebrow.

He bends his knees and pulls Eduardo _onto_ him, which is almost too much, too good, right away, all at once.

"Ohmygod" he blurts out. Peter laughs and holds Eduardo by the thighs as he wraps his feet behind him. They don't last very long. Eduardo comes first, a full two minutes sooner, coming onto his stomach and feeling contentedly full until Peter follows him, fingers digging deep into his ass muscles, pulling him off the bed.

"Fuck," Peter says, when he comes, "fuck, pet, that's nice."

Eduardo likes that very much.

He also likes watching Peter take a shower (a very quick shower), and get dressed. Eduardo likes clothes, he likes the transformation. Under the right circumstances, Eduardo thinks, _getting dressed_ can be the sexiest thing of all. In the right context, the buttoning of a shirt is better than the removal of a pair of pants, fastening cufflinks better than any loosened tie.

Perhaps he has been dragged to too many strip clubs.

But watching Peter get dressed, in medium weight charcoal gray, like a proper Englishman, is, as the English would say, _dead sexy_.

He watches the whole ritual intently, his lower half tangled in the sheets, another cup of coffee warming his palm. His hair is a wreck, but he is well-fucked and well-rested, and it's Saturday, still.

Peter zips up his suitcase, and then hands Eduardo his card.

"How are you fixed for dinner, three weeks from today?"

Eduardo looks at the card. It is embossed. Peter is based in Hong Kong, with a secondary contact given in Scotland.

He looks back up and smiles, a genuine smile.

"I'll put it in my calendar," he says, going for his Blackberry.

Peter ducks in and kisses him on the mouth, and then the top of the head.

"See you then," he says, "I hope you like Chinese."

And then he is gone, and Eduardo is naked in a hotel bed with a business card. He does not burn this one in the ashtray. He sniffs it -- as if paper had a smell -- and then he puts the details in his address book.

 


	2. Singapore II

Eduardo knows the value of work. He could so easily be idly rich -- a playboy, a kept thing, a perpetual migrant between vacation homes -- and yet he knows that would make him a disappointment. Not even to his father, not only. Not really. It would be a falsity, an affront. An injustice, after the fact, to his father, sure, but also to his father's father, and _his_ father, and _his_ father. All the way back across the Atlantic to present-day Portugal, fleeing persecution.

It is not just his father he would be letting down.

So Eduardo has to work, he has to be _doing something_ even if he is a multibillionaire. He makes so much money, even now. This is in part because he takes exactly the right amount of risks, for himself, for his clients.

Eduardo is very good at his job.

He works all of the time, early mornings and late nights, and he goes home and strips off his suits and ties and undershirt and lies on the couch, in his underwear, a drink within reach, and he reads.

Eduardo does not look online that much. He gets emails and texts and he reads articles, but he does not network _that way._

Peter starts emailing, texting.

Eduardo does not recall giving him his card, but he must have done so. He is getting emails at his gmail account, not his work account. It stores them all up and he reads them back, like a transcript.

His emails are flirty, almost coy.

In this day and age the physical comes easy. That's what comes first. Fucking comes first, before the flirting.

So they are back and forthing, flirting. Acting like they haven't done the deed already, oddly.

Jan does not flirt over email. He sends one text, and then Eduardo is contacted by the maître-d' of an expensive Continental place and given the details of their reservation.

The reservation is for Friday. They call him on a Tuesday afternoon right after Tokyo closes for the night and Eduardo goes into a bathroom stall and sits down on the toilet, breathing shallowly, head in his hands.

He is excited, because right after they called with the reservation he received a text message.

 _If you're amenable, shall we test the durability of those bedposts after dinner?_

Eduardo is quite excited.

He cleans up his apartment. He goes to the grocery store and buys food, which is something of a rarity, since he eats three meals a day at the office, or in restaurants. He has to pay with his own money at the grocery store. He tends to expense things, if he can. Taxis, meals. It's silly, really. He could pay for all of it ten times over. He's not saving up for anything.

Friday comes fast. Time passes too slowly, while he waits, checking his phone, refreshing his inbox. He is thinking, remembering, picturing. He jerks off on Tuesday night, and once again on Wednesday morning. Not on Thursday, and not on Friday.

He shows up ten minutes early, but Jan is already there, seated at the bar, nursing a gin and tonic. He leaves it behind, and stands up when Eduardo arrives, presses both his hands around Eduardo's one. His hands are warm, dry. He is dressed in an inky black suit, white shirt, no tie. He has on glasses.

"Mr Saverin!" he says, effusive, smiling. "How wonderful to see you again. Shall we?" he asks, moving his hand down Eduardo's back as they are shown to their table.

Eduardo puts his napkin in his lap, right away.

Dinner is fine. They have aperitifs and then a bottle of South African Shiraz with dinner. Eduardo gets the squab. They talk. They eat. Nothing is mentioned until they have dessert and coffee and are on to the brandy. Jan picks up his snifter and warms it between his palms. Eduardo does the same.

He is drowsy from the meal. Jan sets his glass down. Eduardo does the same. Jan reaches over and turns Eduardo's hand over, so his palm is facing up. He runs a fingertip under Eduardo's shirt cuff, and then scratches him ever so lightly with his nail, leaving a white mark like a scuff.

It is the first time he has touched him since they sat down.

That barest of movements makes the all the hairs on his arm stand up. It makes him twitch in his seat, makes his asshole flutter. Everything narrows to that small point of contact, and Eduardo hisses a breath in through his teeth.

"So, Eduardo," Jan says, dropping his voice. "We have a few things to discuss."

Eduardo's mouth feels dry.

He coughs, finds himself reeling and then says, dumbly, "Oh?"

"Mmm," Jan, says, thoughtfully, still rubbing his thumb under Eduardo's cuff, barely brushing the fabric. Eduardo is actually, legitimately embarrassed that he is finding this movement so hypnotic, so -- fuck, so _arousing._

"There is the matter of what you will call me, of course--" and Eduardo feels his ears go pink, because he knows what that means and _meu Deus_ he's never done _that_ before.

"--and then we need to decide on what you will say should you wish to stop. Just a word you don't use in everyday conversation. Something out of place. _Marsupial,_ perhaps, or _Helsinki_ _."_

Eduardo has some ideas.

"You can tell me when we get back to your place," and Eduardo nods, flexing his hand open and closed, his dick swelling full against his zipper.

"Move forward in your seat," Jan says, oh-so-quietly, "sit right on the edge."

Eduardo moves.

Jan is tracing a pattern on his palm, the lines there. His voice lilts. Eduardo thinks maybe he is being hypnotized. He feels like there is a magnet keeping his hand pinned to the table.

"Open your legs," he says, softly.

Eduardo does so, breathing out hard when he feels Jan's foot there, pressing, rubbing.

"Wider," he whispers.

Eduardo can feel himself rocking forward into the arch of his foot, can feel heat coiling up in his stomach. The pressure builds, the pace quickens, and Eduardo wants to scream, or gasp, or pull his cock out, but he just opens his legs wider - as wide as he can, his pants pulled tight around his thighs. He tilts his hips up into the touch. The whole time Jan draws feathery circles on his palm, touches his wrist like the wings of a butterfly.

They are at a booth, their legs mostly concealed by a heavy tablecloth.

No one can see that Eduardo comes in his pants.

He wants to go to the bathroom afterward and clean himself off, but Jan shakes his head _no_ when he asks if he can. He does give him his jacket, though, which Eduardo carries slung over one arm to hide the stain in his crotch.

They get in a dark car that has been waiting, idling by the curb with its headlights dimmed. Jan exchanges a few words with his driver and then rolls up the divider separating them. He puts his hand back on Eduardo's crotch, which is already a sodden mess, and starts rubbing against the wet patch. It chafes. His underwear are going to have to be thrown out. His suit is probably going to be _ruined._

He spends the whole ride gasping in little breaths, his dick pulsing under a firm hand, his own hand on the door, wiping oily streaks across the glass.

He thinks about what to call him.

It all seems a little strange.

Eduardo already has a safeword, though.

He has used it in the past, but only with women, and those women are all professionals. Eduardo has certain _needs_ that he has only allowed women to cater to.

They are Asian, without fail, and they wear towering stiletto heels and tie him spread-eagled to the bed, and press bruises into his chest with their feet. Sometimes they make him lick their shoes while they call him every nasty name under the sun.

Eduardo gets off, when he does this -- every four months or so, not all that often -- but his anticipation is never sexual. His desire to be hurt, to be told that he's a worthless piece of shit, that's not exactly sexual.

But he comes hard, all the same, when they finally suck him off and spit his semen back onto his stomach with a vile-sounding retch.

He tells them to do this, in advance. Somehow it feels right.

And so he has always had a safeword, since college he has had one, though never a man, like this, to use it with.

It is a word he hates to say aloud, it is a thing he despises, that makes him feel like a pansy, a failure, a pushover, a fuck-up.

They drive to Eduardo's building. The driver holds the door open for them, and then hands Jan two matching black leather suitcases from the trunk. Eduardo is still clutching the suit jacket in front of him, and does so on the ride up to his floor.

He is not frightened, but he is really, really, really turned on. Like getting off an hour ago wasn't enough. He wants to be spread open. He wants to be _hurt._

"Do you want a drink, or something?" he asks, flicking on the lights.

"Mineral water will be fine," Jan says.

"You should have one yourself, Eduardo," he adds, with a slight smile.

"This way?" he asks, indicating the hall leading to the bedroom.

Eduardo nods his assent and goes into the kitchen. His dick is still throbbing in his pants. The apartment is stuffy. His refrigerator is fully stocked, which is very odd. It's like someone else lives there. He has fruit and cereal and wine and milk and cheese. He really only knows where the glasses are, the glasses and the forks to eat takeout with, but he pours them each a Pellegrino and heads for the bedroom.

Jan is inspecting the room, walking around with his hands clasped behind his back. There's not a hell of a lot to look at. A patio, a view. The suitcases are on the bed, unzipped. Eduardo has changed the sheets. They are dark grey. The bed is tightly made. It's nearly as anonymous as a hotel, save for the books scattered around the place.

"So, Eduardo," Jan says, taking his water, sipping. "Have you made your decisions?"

Eduardo has been thinking, in the kitchen, about these questions.

He has never done what he is about to do with a man before.

He has been tied up by girls, of course.

He wanted Christy to, but she never did. She set fire to the scarf he bought her before they had the chance to. Plus, she was fucking _batshit._

It still would have been hot, though.

There was the lesbian couple he met at a house party in Berlin, after he filed the papers and ran away while his legal team sorted things out. They brought him home when the three of them were rolling on E and passed him back and forth like a party favor.

He doesn't remember much of that time, just that his wrists were sore the next day and he couldn't seem to drink enough water; his mouth felt dry for two days after.

And the women he pays, of course. There are enough of them.

They call him _Wardo_ if they refer to him by name, at all. Usually they don't.

He calls them _Madam_ or _Mistress_ or _Ma'am._

You can find them on the internet. It's all very discreet.

Eduardo believes deeply in the value of privacy. He does not keep a public profile. He does not want information about himself circulating on the internet. He posts no pictures, he belongs to no groups.

He thinks "Sir" is pretty much the closest equivalent to that, although there is _Master,_ or the other one, the _really sick_ one.

Eduardo is not going to call any man _Daddy._

That's too obvious, isn't it?

Besides being straight-up gross.

So he settles on _Sir_ which he tells Jan, who looks pleased at this decision.

He tells Eduardo to go to the bathroom, but not to clean himself off.

Eduardo does so. He does what he needs to do with shaking hands, his dick pink at the tip from rough stroking.

When he comes back, he stands in front of Jan who has seated himself on the bed. He tugs on him by his hips and starts to take off his ruined pants, which Eduardo has not bothered to close all the way. He runs a hand over Eduardo's stomach, making him twitch anxiously.

"And what will you say if you wish for me to stop, Eduardo?"

Eduardo is hard, he is dizzy, and he's fucking horny.

He looks at all the stuff spread out on the bed and side table, Jan's expectant upturned face.

"Eduardo?" he repeats, softly, "have you made your decision?"

Eduardo does not wait any longer to tell him what that word is.

"Facebook," he says. "If I want you to stop, I'll say Facebook."

Jan pulls him into his lap, so that they are sitting face to face. Eduardo has on his button-down shirt, all rumpled now, and his briefs, which cling damply to his front.

There is a lot of kissing...

So much kissing...

And palming...

Touching...

And getting close even in that position.

This must go on for a good thirty minutes. It's a really long time before Eduardo even gets his dress shirt off.

...A button here, another there.

...And more making out.

...And, like, grinding?

Eduardo is sort of surprised at this turn of events, but he is not complaining.

All of the kissing is so fantastic, the firm hands rubbing surely up and down his back until he collapses forward seeking more contact.

And then Jan lays Eduardo down on the bed, bare-chested, and Eduardo pushes his hips up and _whines_ because it has been like, an hour now, and he needs to come, soon.

He is not ready to beg just yet.

 _Not quite yet._

However, this time, when he goes to move his hands above his head, and Jan smiles, his eyes creasing deeply at the sides, and rubs his stubbly cheek against Eduardo's own and says, "Is this meant to be a hint, Eduardo?"

Eduardo leans his head back and Jan licks a wet stripe up the front of his neck, and Eduardo does not answer, just puts one wrist on top of the other and moans again, low in his throat.

"Eduardo." This time his voice sounds much colder, and Eduardo's eyes snap open, bleary.

"Answer me."

"I'm ready," he breathes in, feeling this feeling of soaring and surrender and sickness with himself, all over, all at once.

 _Sir._

And then he is being bound up, and then he can choke it out, say it aloud.

"Please."

When they were back at the restaurant, Eduardo thought that Jan made him come in his fucking pants to be cruel, to humiliate him.

Not that he minded.

But now, now that they are here and he is tied up to this new headboard -- a gift from a man who is not yet his regular lover -- now he sees that this was actually an act of kindness.

Because Eduardo is _soaked_ with sweat.

And Jan does not let him come.

For a very long time.

...He spends five minutes in each armpit.

...And pulls his underwear down and off.

...He touches him, down there, inside, outside.

And the room is so fucking hot and Eduardo's eyes are bleary when he opens them to see that there are bite marks all over his front, where his hip meets his stomach.

He is so close so many times...

He loses track of how many times...

And every time he can't he _sobs..._

And everything goes, himself, his life, his history, his fucking language goes until he is speaking Hebrew or Portuguese or Klingon, he doesn't even know anymore.

Everything fractures when it finally happens.

And it's not even good, not even real.

It's pure physiology.

He honest-to God chokes and he comes but his cock is so sore, so raw, that the pain overshadows the orgasm.

And then Jan leaves him there.

He is really good about not breaking frame.

Eduardo likes that he leaves him tied up and goes out on the patio to smoke.

And he likes also, that he takes a huge inhale of cigarette and blows it in Eduardo's face.

And that when he sees Eduardo flinch up with fear and excitement he does it twice more, and then forcibly exhales smoke in Eduardo's mouth.

Eduardo coughs and chokes and his eyes water.

And he is ready, again.

Jan goes and throws the cigarette in the toilet, flushes it.

He takes his clothes off and hangs them in the bathroom.

Eduardo watches him.

And then, finally, _finally_ he kneels between Eduardo's legs and puts a condom on and Eduardo's arms jerk when his fingers tweak his nipples and he enters him _Christ finally_ and the pace is perfect and his cock is perfect and the words just keep coming a mix of _yesyesyes_ and _pleasepleaseplease_ and then he says _hit me, hit me--_

\--and his heels are digging in to Jan's waist and everything is right all the heat and all the darkness and even the spinning and he says it again _hit me, hit me--_ and he opens his eyes and is nodding and saying _please Sir, please, please_ and when the slaps come against his cheeks he cannot keep his eyes open and he snaps into all the pieces of the universe and then it is about more than just the orgasm it is about becoming nothing.

There is just the snaking of his intestines up his spine into his throat and throttling him and the void.

 _Nothing._

And then he unties him and Eduardo goes to piss and his legs are wobbly but he feels beyond wonderful.

He rubs his back and gives Eduardo more water and he whispers a lot of words that are soothing and gentle.

He falls asleep and wakes up before dawn, starving.

He goes to the kitchen and eats a bunch of cheese and cereal, leaning up naked against the counter.

Then he eats an apple.

And then a banana.

He's fucking _starving._

And he pokes at the bruises that are forming and he touches his cheek, which doesn't actually hurt, but he brushes his fingers over it and imagines that he can feel the back of a hand there, again.

Because the sex was fantastic.

And his orgasm was incredible.

Yet he knows that this kind of thing, it's never really about the orgasm.

Because he can get off.

He can get himself off, no problem.

Or he can pick up a girl.

Go to a prostitute.

Eduardo still likes having sex with women, and there are a lot of beautiful, beautiful women in Singapore.

He watches the sun rise through the living room window and then he goes back to bed.

He puts a towel down on his side, this time, because the sheets are disgusting.

He curls up on Jan's bare chest and yawns, making a mental note to change the sheets in the morning.

This is how they spend Saturday, as well.

Eduardo does not get dressed. He does not take a shower (he is not allowed to take a shower), and he wears the same underwear from Friday (he is told to do this.)

And in between he sleeps.

He sleeps so fantastically well.

And he has amazingly vivid dreams but when he wakes up he isn't tired, the way dreams sometimes make you.

He eats, too.

And despite the fact that the insides of his thighs feel scratched raw and his shoulders are sore.

By the time Saturday night comes he is so ready to get off.

Hours and hours of being kept on edge, his asshole raw, his dick chafed.

And everything bleary and bleeding into one another.

Until it is midnight on Saturday and he is facing the headboard, wrists bound up, legs splayed wide on his knees, fucking himself with short hard strokes on Jan's cock, and he is pressing fingers into the base of Eduardo's spine and nailing him, just there, right fucking there, and he is wheezing with the exertion and the denial.

And then there are hands laid atop of his and being perfectly full, a moment of utter surrender. Peace. Quiet.

 _Annihilation._

It is like nothing he has ever experienced before.

He falls asleep on the soaked sheets. They have not changed those, either.

Eduardo is not allowed to take a shower until Sunday afternoon.

The room reeks of sex.

And the heat just makes it worse.

It smells even stronger when the rains come, hard, in the middle of the night. Eduardo wakes up to go to the bathroom, and falls back asleep, listening to the rain.

They sleep curled up together.

It's reassuring.

On Sunday they take a shower together and then Eduardo makes them breakfast and Jan fucks him on the kitchen table after he finishes his toast.

Eduardo has changed his underwear.

He is clean, wearing black underwear and a sleeveless t-shirt, fresh from the laundry.

When his back makes contact with the table he ends up with jam on his shirt and some of the juice spills down his arm as they rock back and forth.

He has a huge mess to clean up after Jan leaves.

He has a flight to catch, via Dubai.

He will be back in a month or so.

He kisses Eduardo deeply before the door.

And pushes him against the wall and grins, "A month, then, Eduardo."

Eduardo shuts the door and goes to clean up the mess.

He could call someone in to do so, of course. A maid. A domestic.

They had one growing up, but Eduardo's father still insisted that they do chores, to learn the value of labor, of earning your own money.

Eduardo's parents are very rich, but he still had to windex the television set and vacuum the living room to get his allowance, growing up.

 _How else will he learn?_ his father said.

Eduardo's lip has split down the middle and his nipples are sore. His lower back is _killing_ him, as he cleans up the spilled juice and throws away the crushed toast.

He goes and takes a bath, despite the fact that it is steamy already from the rain.

He changes the sheets, balling the dirty ones up and tossing them into the bathroom.

Eduardo lies awake in the dark and stares at the ceiling.

The rain is so loud.

It's practically a monsoon.

So incredibly loud.

It's definitely the rain that keeps him awake half the night.

It's got to be.

Eduardo has a hectic week, that week. The rain continues. New York is all over the place, because the housing market is still shit, and half the economies of the Eurozone are in need of bailout, so the currency fluctuations send him home with a tension headache every single night, when he leaves, at nine or ten or eleven o'clock.

Peter comes to town the following week, on Thursday, but Eduardo does not see him until Saturday. Peter takes him out for Chinese. They drink plum wine and eat shumai and he speaks Cantonese to the waitress. He is exceptional with his chopsticks, the result, he assures Eduardo, of living in Asia for the last decade.

Then they go back to his hotel, in Marina Bay and have sex on the couch, and then the floor, and later, finally, the bed. Eduardo starts out pretty quiet. By the third time he is so loud he thinks someone might call the front desk and complain.

"Fuck them," Peter says, kissing Eduardo back to consciousness.

It's a good weekend.

Peter orders them room service, and they drink a ton of wine, and at one point they go downstairs. They get massages and then sit in the steam room.

He leaves very early on Monday morning, before the sun rises.

Eduardo goes straight into the office. And then he's bored. He makes money, but he's always making money.

He takes taxis everywhere he goes, because the rains are epic, and his suits are wool.

Peter emails, flirty. He keeps his personal account open on the computer, so when a chat window pops up he will see it. They don't talk on the phone, because they are both busy people, but they drop one another lines, and they send coy text messages.

He does not actually need to be in Singapore for business, but he wants to come visit, the next weekend. Jan is coming that weekend, so Eduardo makes up a lie about friends from out of town and asks about the following weekend.

 _Can't_ comes the reply.

 _Can you come here, instead?_

Eduardo types his response with shaking fingers.

And then he goes online and books a round-trip ticket to Hong Kong.


	3. Hong Kong I

Time passes like this, days of work, of numbers digital and printed rushing past, all day, every day.

Books at night, and an itchy curiosity to look on the internet.

Keeping gmail open makes him more aware of his privacy. Or lack thereof.

He always sets his status to _away_

Peter writes him anyways.

There are still a ton of undeleted names in there, this email address he has been using for over six years, back when it was still in beta mode.

Anyways.

Jan comes to town like before, on a Friday.

And by Sunday afternoon he is _broken,_ speckled with two dozen new bruises and an ass it hurts to wipe.

He eats so much food, and God, he sleeps _so damn well._

Eduardo kind of knows what happens when he's under. He knows that he babbles, he sure as hell know that he begs -- _Please, please, Sir. Please fuck me. Harder, please_ \-- and he knows that he comes so hard that he legitimately blacks out, when it happens, but that's pretty much it.

He can feel it all on Monday, the first full day without coming like that. And without the rush his _facewristsbackass_ all hurt like hell.

But he has something to anticipate now, to look forward to, and he doesn't feel too bad about himself.

He hasn't gone to see the woman he sees in Orchard Towers, and he hasn't picked up anyone else, anyone random. No men, and no pretty girls. Just these two men, neither of whom knows about the other, but Eduardo doubts he means much to either of them.

Despite the meals masquerading as dates, Eduardo is pretty sure he is more or less a mistress.

He can live with that.

He does not want the bruises to fade. He somehow feels lonelier without them as a reminder to himself.

The flight time to Hong Kong is just under four hours from Singapore. He tries to sleep on the plane, complimentary headphones in his ears, complimentary slippers on his feet, glass of complimentary champagne in hand.

He does not fall asleep, though he does lie there with the complimentary eye mask on, listening to one of the jazz stations. He arrives late on Friday, where a black Mercedes is waiting to pick him up, idling by the curb. The driver takes his bag and shuts the door behind him.

"Are you tired?" Peter asks, touching his shoulder.

"Not really," Eduardo says, truthfully.

"Are you hungry?" he asks.

Eduardo says, "Sure, why not."

They go to a noodle shop, in SoHo. Nothing fancy, but it smells fantastic. Peter orders, in Cantonese. Peter pays.

They eat standing up. Eduardo's feet hurt in his dress shoes, but it is nice to look outside, to see something different. He has always enjoyed watching people, being in new places. Hong Kong is like Singapore, but _more,_ somehow. All neon and flashing lights, the smoke of open-air cooking, clumps of pedestrians a solid foot shorter than him. He watches Peter slurp like a pro and asks, abruptly, "Can you do drugs here?"

Peter's forehead wrinkles, right in the middle and he sets down his chopsticks and looks at Eduardo.

"Is there something you want to tell me, Eduardo?" he says. He looks concerned.

"No, no, nothing weird," he smiles back, to reassure him.

"Ah," Peter nods, "Of course. You're sick of only being able to drink, is that it?"

"Well, without the fear of jail time, or, you know, _death,_ " Eduardo says, smiling.

Peter grins, wickedly, "Or a caning, I would imagine?"

Eduardo coughs, halfway through a spoonful of broth. He looks at Peter, who is dialing his phone with his thumb. Eduardo thought, for a moment, that he had been found out.

He gets what he needs from somewhere else, from someone else. Peter likes him enough to flirt with him, and he is not going to ask him to hit him hard, across the face, right before he comes.

Or put him over his knee.

Or to tie him up and work him over.

Or to milk him for hours until he's got nothing left to give.

Eduardo does not want to cross those lines, with Peter.

But he will see if he can score some weed, or maybe some hash, which they can smoke in the back seat of the car. He has done drugs, in Singapore, with clients and coworkers, but he doesn't like to. He's not going to end up in prison over a bit of smoke.

At heart, Eduardo is deeply law-abiding. He believes that there are rules and systems for a reason. That is how society _works._ It allows everyone to function.

You can get drugs at Orchard Towers. You can get anything at Orchard Towers, if you know what floor to stop off on.

It's exceedingly important to be careful. If you don't know where you're going, you could end up on eight, with the Thai lady-boys. Or twelve, where they specialize in golden showers.

Eduardo's floor is sixteen.

He has been visiting the woman there for about three years, now, off an on, since he came to Singapore. He brings a carrier bag with clothes for her when he visits.

She is tiny, barely five feet tall, and she wears a size zero and her feet are a US six. Her bra size is a 32B. She is itty bitty and she makes him feel miniscule.

He pays her very well and he tips her very well and he's just glad he doesn't have to go see her all that often. She is dangerous, like a spider, like an anaconda. He would not have it any other way.

Peter is talking to someone on the phone and Eduardo has drifted off into a hazy headspace, until he hears his name repeated three times. Peter is slipping his phone back into his pocket and says, "Do you want to head out?"

Eduardo says, "Okay," and then they get back in the car, which has been waiting for them by the bus stop. This time Peter holds up a hand when the driver starts to get out, and he is the one who holds the door for Eduardo.

They drive to a restaurant and Peter makes a call. Someone comes to sit in the backseat, across from them, and things are exchanged.

Eduardo's heart is racing.

They are driven up to the Midlevels. Peter is rich enough to live in one of these high-rises, same as Eduardo does, although he probably owns rather than rents. Eduardo's is still a rental. He does not have a lease, just a month-to-month.

 _Just in case._

They ride up to a floor in the forties. Eduardo's stomach always lurches in elevators, even now, after years spent in vertical cities.

Peter has a gorgeous flat with an even more gorgeous view. All the furniture hints at modern, but he has old books, and vases, and photographs on the walls. Sun-washed pictures of the old city in Shanghai, parched vistas of Spain, the Georgian facades of Edinburgh.

It is late and Eduardo is tired, and he lets Peter take off his jacket and kiss him, hooking his thumbs into his armpits and steering him over to the couch. They make out for a little while. Peter loosens Eduardo's tie and mouths wetly against his neck.

"If I could carry you in the other room, I would, you know," he says.

Eduardo grins.

He follows Peter into the bedroom where they both get naked, incredibly slowly.

They undress themselves.

It's like a game, keeping the flirtation going even when they are in the same room, mere feet apart.

Eduardo leaves his clothes in a little pile on the floor..

And then Peter wraps his upper arm around Eduardo's head and kisses him, standing up, pushing against him.

The bed is just as nice as everything else in the flat.

Eduardo comes twice before they even smoke, which they do, together. He curls up on Peter's chest and they pass a joint back and forth.

It's hash, and it's mellow and delicious, spicy, and Eduardo smiles against Peter's shoulder and turns to look up at him, still smiling.

"Do you know about the Boxer Rebellion?" he asks, rubbing his fingers across Peter's chest.

"A bit," he says, "The effects of a public school education. Why?"

"It's interesting, is all," Eduardo says, taking another drag. And then he mumbles some things about colonialism and trade routes, opium, nationalism.

He falls asleep and dreams of poppy fields and the invention of gunpowder.

When he wakes up -- which he does because of the smell of coffee -- he feels pretty good. His wrists aren't sore like he would like, but his lips are scratched up and his ass muscles are strained.

He scratches his butt as he goes into the kitchen. Peter hands him an espresso in a tiny cup and watches him drink it.

"It's good, I promise," he says, laughing. Peter looks at him intently and goes back to making toast.

They do not spend the whole weekend in bed, because Peter wants to show Eduardo around Hong Kong, where he has only been for business, in the past. He likes to eat, and on Saturday they change into khakis and polo shirts and go down into the city, to Tsim Sha Tsui, and walk, peering into shop windows, pricing menus.

They do not hold hands or anything, because they are not in Europe (where it's okay, kind of, or more so), but Peter rests his hand between Eduardo's shoulder blades so that they do not get separated. The streets are crowded, the tiny alleys and by-ways less so.

Peter sneaks kisses against his neck, or he grabs Eduardo's ass, briefly, when they turn down one of these tiny side streets with no other passerby, or when the only other people are old, blind, giggling children, bickering tourists looking at a map.

He sets a white couple (Dutch, Eduardo thinks, but he's not one hundred percent sure) on the right path back to their hotel, and then he takes Eduardo out for soup dumplings, and duck, and potstickers.

When they get back to Peter's flat they take a shower together, because they both stink from the city and the heat. They sit in their bathrobes and smoke another joint and drink a bottle of red, sitting on the couch, looking through the glass windows, watching the lights of buildings come on as it becomes night.

At one point Eduardo gets up and looks outside, puts his hand against the glass. He can see out, and he can see in, reflected in dim streaks of white light, the reflection of his face, the couch, the room behind him.

How amazing, he thinks, pressing his fingertips to the glass, that this could all spring from a fishing settlement, these towers of glass and steel and concrete -- the churches of capitalism. You can always tell the most important thing in a society from the tallest building, and in this day and age it is money, just as before that it was the church, and before that it was the citadel, the castle.

Fuck, Eduardo is _high._

He looks out and over and down, and he can catch a glimpse of a mirror in a window across the street, reflecting Peter's building back at them. He read once that despite the almost feral nature of apartment hunting in Hong Kong, if the feng shui of a place isn't right, it can be hard to shift property. But people use mirrors, octagonal bagua mirrors to bring water elements into the home, and to open up corners, dark places with bad qi.

It can become a contest between neighbors, each putting up another mirror to bounce the bad energy back, away from themselves.

Peter comes up behind him and puts his hands on his hips, breathing against his neck. They are almost exactly the same height, and he is learning that Eduardo's neck is extremely sensitive.

He kisses across the top of Eduardo's bathrobe, and then he cups his shoulders, sliding his hands forward to undo the terry belt and push the bathrobe to the floor.

Eduardo is dizzy, whether from drugs or wine or vertigo, he is not sure, but it is nice, and he presses his palms flat against the glass as Peter kisses his way down his back. He pushes his ass back and Peter chuckles, running a finger over each ass cheek before pulling his underwear down.

Eduardo stares out at the city, at the octagonal mirror reflecting a glint of artificial light back in his direction. He gropes at the glass and breathes out hard when Peter starts to lick into him with his tongue.

He does not let himself look down until he cannot hold back any longer, and he shudders and comes against the window, looking down forty stories into the street.

They fuck on the floor, in front of the windows.

Eduardo falls asleep on the floor, and wakes up covered in a blanket, just before dawn. Peter is on the couch, and Eduardo shakes him awake. Peter falls asleep again right away, back in the bed. Eduardo does not.

He has a book, but instead he reads over old emails, on his phone. He does not manage to fall back asleep.

Peter has a conference call, on Sunday, but he takes Edaurdo out for dim sum, first. The car drops him at the office, and he kisses Eduardo goodbye, pressing the final joint and a lighter into his palm.

"This was fun," he says, smiling. "Travel safe."

"Thanks for everything."

Peter shows a security guard his ID and is buzzed into the building. Eduardo rolls up the divider and gets high by himself. He waits in the executive lounge. He pokes around on his phone. Just to see what people are up to, not because he cares.

He cares a little bit.

Possibly more than that.

The next month goes like this. He and Peter start to see one another more often, nearly every other week, and he flies there, or Peter comes to him, but they always meet in the same hotel (the Mandarian Oriental, tenth floor) and the sex is astounding.

They decide to stop using condoms.

It is implicitly understood that they are both busy men who have to travel for work, so sometimes, things happen, and if and when they do (and they will; they always will), they will use protection.

Eduardo feels pretty good about this arrangement.

Peter is not there enough to become dependent on. All the books, and the websites, when he can be bothered to look at them, tell Eduardo that he is classically co-dependent.

He's sure there's some truth to this, so he vows to not be _co-_ with anyone, since it's caused him trouble in the past.

Understatement of the year, that.

 _Trouble._

 _Six hundred fucking million dollars and a five percent reinstated share worth of fucking trouble._

 _Asshole._

They spend four weekends in a row together. Eduardo is getting much better at using his chopsticks. Peter always orders, and Peter always pays.

Eduardo has really always hated making decisions.

Peter decides that he needs some new suits, he tells Eduardo that he likes how he looks in blue. One sweltery weekend in August they go to his tailor, who stands Eduardo on a little shelf in the middle of a room draped with bolts of merino and cashmere and tweed. _Tweed_ _,_ for fuck's sake, since even in exile, the Brits go for tweed, years of colonial soldiering ingrained somehow in the genetic code.

Peter watches from an armchair while Eduardo gets measured, up the leg and across the arms. He has to look away because Peter is looking at him with a small smirk, crossing and uncrossing his legs in a way that makes Eduardo want to stare at his crotch.

He has to look away, letting his eyes rest on the fabric they've picked -- navy-blue, tropical-weight wool.

They had planned to go to the market before heading back up to Peter's, but in the car he places his hand on Eduardo's crotch and whispers, "Let's skip it, go back to mine?"

Eduardo is fine with that.

He is fine when Peter eats him out on the couch and then jerks off onto his stomach and says, "Fuck me, pet, you are gorgeous, aren't you?"

They order in, Thai food, which they start to eat standing in the kitchen, after smoking a joint, and then abandon when Peter hoists Eduardo onto the counter and pulls both his legs over one shoulder and fucks him against the cold marble.

They feed one another noodles, after, sitting on the floor. At one point they knocked over a bottle of soy sauce, and the salty smell lingers in the kitchen until Sunday, when he flies back to Singapore, to the bank, to his little pod of luxury.

When Peter comes to visit they have sex in the hotel bed, and in the shower, and they go out, or don't, as the case is.

But every five weeks Jan comes to visit, and Eduardo makes excuses, about having to go out of town to a wedding or a bar mitzvah, or claiming that his mother is coming to see him.

Eduardo has not seen his mother since 2007.

He has offered to fly her out, countless times, to meet her in Tokyo, or Honolulu, or Sydney, even.

But she makes excuses, and says, in Portuguese, "I can't, Wardo, you know that."

And then she hands the phone to his father, who grunts and grumbles, and never once asks how Eduardo is doing, or what he's been reading, or if he's seen any good movies lately.

He just mutters some shit about Cuba, or the fucking price of heating oil, or the import taxes on the rise now that a fucking _liberal African son of a bitch_ is in office.

Eduardo just presses his lips together and lets his father talk.

Sometimes he does this thing where he holds the phone at arm's length and stares at it so hard, like he can make it shatter with just the force of his glare.

And when there are pauses, in whatever fucking bullshit rant his father is delivering, then he brings the phone back to his ear and murmurs his assent.

He doesn't exactly relish calling Miami.

Jan comes to town and then Eduardo is a happy prisoner in his own home.

They go out to eat first, always, somewhere fancy, somewhere nice.

And now, during the meal -- typically between the appetizer and the entree, he will lean over and say, "You should go to the toilet, Eduardo," with a meaningful nod.

The first time Eduardo tilted his head like he didn't understand, until he felt a foot in his crotch.

"Go to the toilet and deal with this," he said, harshly, and Eduardo's dick twitched. He pressed his napkin to his lips and started to stand up.

"And Eduardo," he added, grabbing onto his wrist, "Don't clean up afterward. I'll check later, to make sure you listened."

Eduardo had nodded, his mouth dry, and had done what he was told. He sat down on a toilet seat and touched himself, like he'd been told to do.

He's never been fond of masturbation, because it's different then sex. The end result -- some firing synapses, an adrenaline rush, a teaspoon of semen -- that's the same, but he can't get there the same way.

During sex he can go, he can disappear.

And the other stuff, the pain and humiliation, that works more or less like the sex, but even more so.

He needs those things, in his life.

They are what balance out how he feels when he jerks off, where his mind goes, without him even asking it to.

To a video loop, of nights that were too cold to sleep alone.

 _Stupid curly-haired asshole._

Eduardo is quiet when he comes, in the toilet, shaking onto his stomach, biting his lower lip so as not to make too much noise.

He does not clean up his mess, but he does wash his hands, and put cold water on his face.

He goes back to the table, cold come drying under his shirt.

Tonight he has been good.

But good and bad, those are relative categories.

Eduardo wants to be good, all the time, but he knows, he feels, he _needs_ to be bad, deep-down.

That is what he deserves.

Jan is good. Cold in all the right ways. He's really good.

He is clipped, and authoritative, and when Eduardo begs him to hit him, he almost never hesitates.

And he's good with the aftercare, and if tears sting Eduardo's eyes, one millisecond after his orgasm washes over him like a sob, well, he never says anything about it.

He says _God, you're a fucking animal._

And he lets Eduardo be on top, sometimes, with his arms stretched back behind him and bound up to the headboard, in this weird face-to-face position where he has to use the muscles in his stomach to make enough motion to get them both off.

They don't ever turn on the air, and when Eduardo falls asleep it is in a pool of his own sweat and ejaculate.

He's never slept better. Not since college, at least.

He starts bringing Eduardo things -- for the apartment, or things to wear.

One steamy Wednesday he comes home late, having been at a wine and dine with clients from the States, and finds that there are three bookcases set up in the living room.

There is also a note, on the kitchen table.

 _Don't put the books away yet. J_

Next to the note is a package, which he opens slowly.

Another note, inside.

 _Wear these to dinner on Friday. Don't touch yourself until then._

Eduardo fingers the black lace and goes to take a shower -- a cold one.

He is bleary at work the next two days, dizzy with anticipation. He makes mistakes in his mathematics, he never picks up the phone in time.

Eduardo is beyond excited.

He leaves the office early on Friday, daringly. He goes back to his apartment and takes a shower. He opens the door to outside and lies on the bed, damp, until his skin dries on its own.

Getting ready takes no longer than usual. The grooming ritual is the best way to face the world, he finds. It prepares him; putting on layers just like clothes. Tonight, though. Everything feels itchier, tighter. He's always been hyper aware of his body, now even more so.

He takes a taxi to another Western-style restaurant. Eduardo's knees are trembling when he sits down.

There are pleasantries, and Jan does not put his foot in Eduardo's crotch or tell him to go touch himself in the toilets.

Instead he says, while they wait for dessert, "Tell me what they feel like, Eduardo."

Eduardo has been half-hard throughout dinner, the constriction around his nuts having much the same effect as a hand. His dick throbs, trapped in the lace.

"Tight," he breathes out, closing his eyes.

"Is that all?" he asks, rubbing against Eduardo's wrist very lightly.

Eduardo hisses in a breath at the slight touch.

It's like a warning.

It makes him even harder.

"Itchy," he stammers out, "Just...really itchy, scratchy, and tight, and like, I can feel everything down there."

Jan squeezes his wrist lightly, and Eduardo exhales with relief.

"Good," he says, eying the approaching waitress, "I want you nice and wet before we even leave."

Eduardo watches as Jan leans back, moving his hand away. He is dizzy, all the blood gone from his head.

Jan thanks the waitress and starts stirring a sugar cube into his espresso.

"You should eat that, Eduardo," he says, gently.

Eduardo picks up his spoon.

~

Friday night goes a little differently. Instead of tying him to the bed, Jan sits down on the couch, after Eduardo has fetched him a drink.

"Now," he says, his voice firm. "I have noticed that you don't do a very good job picking up after yourself, Eduardo."

Eduardo is standing in front of him, grossly aware of how turned on he is. He is, true to form, leaking through the delicate underwear and onto his silk-blend pants. He doesn't even have to be touched for that to happen. It embarrasses him. Jan likes it, though, how wet Eduardo gets.

"I think perhaps I should teach you a lesson, Eduardo, what do you think?"

Eduardo is reeling with it, not down, fully, because he's standing upright, and wearing clothes, and the moment hasn't come yet. But his dick is hard and his palms are sweaty and he is fantastically aware of every single muscle in his body when Jan says, "Take your clothes off and fold them. Put them here in front of me." He taps the coffee table with his open palm.

Eduardo starts with his shirt and Jan says, "Slow down, there, Eduardo."

He undoes one button at a time. His cufflinks clatter against the wood. He folds up his shirt, sets in down on the table. He does the same with his undershirt. He toes off his shoes and places them on the table as well, getting lightheaded when he bends over. His balled up socks go in the shoes.

Then his hands move to his belt and he has to pause, his cheeks flushing red as he unbuckles it, slowly, and steps out of his pants. He starts to fold those up, and Jan holds out his palm and says, "Give them to me."

Eduardo hands him the pants, his hands moving instinctively to cover his crotch. He is covered -- if wearing black lace boyshorts counts -- but he feels so naked, so exposed.

Jan is fingering the front of his pants and he tsks, shaking his head.

"You've ruined these, Eduardo," he says, with a frown.

Eduardo's hands are clasped in front of his hard-on. He is sweating harder now, but his sweat is cold.

"Put your hands down," he says.

Eduardo lets his hands drop by his sides.

"You should take better care of your things, Eduardo," he says sternly.

And then he watches Eduardo out all of the books away on the new bookshelves, wearing only this tiny pair of panties. Eduardo can feel his eyes on his backside, appraising, especially when he kneels.

When he finishes, the apartment looks much tidier. Jan has unzipped his pants and is touching himself, leisurely, staring hungrily at Eduardo.

"Come," he says, holding out his hand.

Eduardo comes around the coffee table to the couch.

Jan pats his knee, and Eduardo goes to sit on it.

He lets himself be fondled, and touched, forceful hands stroking him through the fabric. He is so sore, so hard, and soaking, soaking wet.

"You did a good job with the books, but I still think some punishment is in order. Shall I put you over my knee, Eduardo?" Jan asks, level.

He nods yes and then manages to croak out the verbal answer he knows is expected, "Yes, Sir, please."

And then he is being moved into position, head down, rear upturned, spread open. He is dizzy, his cock is leaking, his ass is tingling waiting for the first blow. But there is stroking, first, circles being rubbed on each cheek before the slaps begin. Eduardo grits his teeth at first, and then as they come harder and more frequently he stops anticipating. He lets himself sink into it, rubbing himself hard against Jan's leg, his mind going blank.

He whimpers and his breath creaks. There is a pause, for talk and soothing caresses. Eduardo knows what he looks like, spread on the couch, black lace underwear yanked up on each side, his ass blooming with pink handprints. His eyes are watering and he is dripping sweat all over.

The hand comes back, for a while, and then he feels something harder, firmer, that lands with a resolute _thwack._

It is his shoe.

And that makes the pain flood sharper, it makes his body sing with it, and he is emptied out to nothing but _want_ and _need_ and _please_ and there are no feelings, and there is no one else, not even himself.

It's this empty primordial dawn. The space before the beginning of the universe. Quarks. Energy.

And he can kind of feel it, that he is asking for something, that there is a hard cock in his mouth and a firm hand pressing down rhythmically on the back of his head, but he is just these points of contact -- of mouth and ass and cock -- and everything else just _dissolves._ He can hear words _such a bad boy_ and _suck Daddy's big hard cock_ and _take it you little slut_ but he doesn't even need them, the dick in his mouth and the hand on his ass working in tandem to make him soar.

He swallows the come that coats his mouth without even thinking about it, and then there are rough strokes against his dick, through the sodden lace, and he comes with a sob.

He pants on Jan's knee, spent.

He lies there for a while, stroking his hair.

He falls asleep.

He wakes up in the bed, alone, still wearing the underwear.

Eduardo feels pretty fantastic, is the thing.

He's gotten so much better, the last few years, at compartmentalizing.

It's too dangerous to invest it all in one person.

Your feelings and your fears. Sex, romance, friendship.

He and Peter are becoming a couple, which is nice.

But the thousands of miles of distance helps.

And they don't share space. He has his own home, his own space.

And they don't need one another.

He wonders if they ever will.

Eduardo would like to be in love, but he doesn't want to fall again.

Tripping, and falling, to get to love.

It seems juvenile, Shakespearean, to have passion enough to fall.

What he has is grown-up, a man with a six-figure salary who watches him with a happily pursed mouth as he gets his suit fitted. When it is finally ready, in September, he wears it out to sushi to celebrate.

The next morning they are lying on opposite ends of the bed. Eduardo drinks his espresso, and Peter drinks his first flush Darjeeling. He rubs Eduardo's ankle while they read the Financial Times.

"We should go somewhere," he says, peering up over his glasses.

"The beach?" Eduardo says, and Peter snorts, derisively.

"We're not all happiest in the sun, Eduardo."

"Are you secretly a ginger?" he teases, "Do you get _freckles?_ "

Peter laughs, and then comes to run his teeth over Eduardo's ankle.

"The FMA are having a conference in the States," he murmurs.

Eduardo's eyes blur for a second.

Peter knows he has a history, things that have gone wrong in his life, bad business deals _on the West Coast_ he had told him. Peter has his own history. And he's English. They don't pry.

"Where?" he breathes out, afraid to hear the answer.

"New York," he says, kissing up Eduardo's leg.

"You should come with me. Take a week off."

"I'm not sure," Eduardo says, his stomach clenching up at the thought of the last time he was in the city.

"Think about it," Peter says, nuzzling at Eduardo's crotch, "I can probably get us a table at Per Se. Their chicken is incredible."

 _Chicken._

Go fucking figure.


	4. Hong Kong II

They go to New York in September. He has not been in the US since giving testimony. His lawyers worked out the settlement and he flew straight back, via Tokyo.

That was the last time he was in America.

He wears the suit Peter bought for him on the plane. It fits him perfectly, two months in the making.

They pass the international dateline.

Somewhere over the Pacific, Eduardo joins the mile-high club.

The first-class bathrooms are bigger than in coach, and they smell like hot towels rather than stale piss.

So that's nice.

He has to close his eyes, though, bent over the sink, face inches from the mirror.

It is over far too quickly.

And he cannot fall asleep, on the plane, even though he has plenty of room and his seat turns into a bed. He reads on his Kindle -- a present from Peter, given to him en route to the airport, preloaded with the classics -- and stares out the window at the cloud cover.

He watches the little icon of the plane, flying over the Pacific, far to the north to work with the curvature of the earth, on the screen beside him.

Eduardo is still awake when they pass over the western United States, north of California. Then he closes his eyes, and sleeps, even though they are flying into the sunrise. When they left Hong Kong it was Friday, but when they land in New York it is still Friday. Eduardo has not told anyone in his own family that he is going to be in America. His sister is living in Washington, DC, a short train ride away, but he is not sure that he wants to call her.

Peter has meetings and conference stuff to attend Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday. Thursday he will fly out from JFK, heading east, to check on things in Europe.

He keeps a pied-à-terre in London, and a flat in Edinburgh.

His family has a second home in Scotland.

He mentions something about _coming to visit over the holidays_ and Eduardo does not say _these are my holidays, I'm Jewish, remember?_

They check into a hotel with an oxygenated pool on the top floor and a hot tub outside, overlooking Midtown.

Peter sits by the pool and reads the paper while Eduardo swims laps. And he gives Eduardo a dirty smile when he swims over to the side of the pool and winks at him, water dripping off his chin.

They have a late dinner reservation on Friday that they miss because Peter thinks Eduardo looks incredibly cute in his swimsuit, with his hair all wet. They have a pizza delivered to the room, well after midnight, instead.

Saturday and Sunday they go out into the city. They eat at Per Se and Prune and Bouchon and go to the Whitney retrospective and the new MoMa.

During the week Eduardo sleeps late and drinks coffee in bed, reading. They have lunch together, and then he wanders off while Peter goes back to his conference.

He buys gum, just because he can.

And walks.

There are these billboards.

For this movie.

He doesn't think much about them until they are in Times Square, with tickets to _La Cage_ and he realizes why he knows that typeface and why everything seems so familiar.

He digs his nails into his palm, hard, when he realizes what, precisely, that billboard means.

And then he shoves it down, deep inside. They go into the theatre and he excuses himself and goes to the toilet and sits down and practices his yogic breathing for a minute.

They watch the show. Peter laughs uproariously and often. Eduardo feels like he's been hit.

No one has hit him that he hasn't asked for it since the last time he visited Miami.

His father knocked him on the head with the flat of his hand and started screaming that he _should have known better than to mix business with feelings._

And Eduardo did what he always did, when his father got angry like that, which was to run to the pool house. When he was sixteen he started making out with the pool boy, whose name was Carlos and who only spoke Spanish.

Carlos was twenty-three, and he was the first guy Eduardo ever kissed. He and Eduardo never had sex, though, because his mother caught them making out and must have said something to his father, because the next time Eduardo ran out to the pool house Carlos was not there.

He had been replaced by a wrinkly old man who was missing two front teeth. Obviously, Eduardo did not want to make out with _him._

Eduardo dated only girls for a while, then. In high school and in college. He lost his virginity to a girl the summer between junior and senior year.

He was a junior in college before he went all the way with a boy.

This boy whose almost-likeness has been staring at him from bus stops and billboards all week long.

 _Asshole._

They get drinks at the bar during intermission. Peter gets them bourbon from Kentucky and keeps his hand on Eduardo's back, while they drink their drinks, because they are in urban coastal America, where that is okay-ish.

They watch the second act but Eduardo does not notice much of it. He is glad to be outside when it is over. They take a taxi back to the hotel.

It is his idea to go upstairs to the hot tub, outside. He kisses Peter almost angrily when they are in the water and starts saying things like _let me blow you_ and Peter kisses him, his mouth wet and his face scratchy and says, "There are people inside, Eduardo, later."

Eduardo pouts. He rubs his hand on Peter's crotch and says, "I want to, though, please."

Peter gives in, though he looks nervous the whole time. He does not pull on Eduardo's hair, hard, or push down on his head, forcefully. Instead he rubs his fingers over the short hairs on the back of Eduardo's neck and says nice things, quiet nice things, and it is Eduardo's name that he breathes out, when he climaxes.

He sucks Eduardo off in the shower, when they get back to the room.

Peter has an early flight on Thursday. He kisses Eduardo goodbye at four a.m. and he's not entirely sure, but he might hear _love_ in there. He sleeps very late, because every time he opens his eyes he cannot drag himself out of the bed.

Eduardo has the room through Sunday, when he goes back. It's the holidays, but he still hasn't gotten in touch with his sister.

He calls his mother and pretends that he is in Asia, where it is already Friday. And then he looks up the number for Sony Pictures and makes a phone call.

He leaves a message with reception. They call back within ten minutes, and are incredibly accommodating.

The concierge is also quite helpful. He sends him to a doctor with a free market approach to prescriptions. Two Valium and two whiskeys later Eduardo is sitting in a screening room, alone, watching a story that is almost-his unfold.

When the writer got in touch he thought that talking about it would help. Like letting blood in a fevered patient.

It sort of helped.

He didn't read the book, though he has a copy, back in Singapore, shelved between Melville and Orwell, on his sturdy new bookshelves.

He stumbles out when it is over. People try to talk or to intercept him but he cannot fucking talk to people.

They want to glad-hand him, pat him on the back, when he feels raw, inside, and not in a good way.

Peter has texted him three times, telling him he's arrived in London, and that he misses him. Eduardo has to resist the urge to toss his phone in a trash can, or leave it behind in the taxi he takes to Tribeca. He stares at the facade of a restaurant that is now closed with the meter running, and then he goes back to his hotel, where he pops two more Valium and gets very, very drunk.

This is how he spends all of Friday, as well. He might tear up a few times, but when that happens he just has another drink. He is taking a lot of pills, because he can't bring them back with him.

He just wants to get out of the room, really, so he goes down to the lobby and sits at the bar, reading over his old emails.

But _one new message_ at one-thirty in the morning on Friday night?

It was if he knew.

He didn't read it until he was alone in the room and then he did throw his phone against the wall.

The case cracked, but the phone was fine.

He read it again.

And again.

 _Asshole._

It wasn't his intention to pick anyone up, it just sort of happened, in the lobby bar, the nicer of the two. He must have gone back downstairs, though it was like sleepwalking; he hardly remembers it.

Someone in advertising. Silver hair, a face full of cold disdain.

The sex was not all that, though. It was sloppy and fast. Vanilla. Boring.

He did not sleep so much as just black out, waking up alone, thank God.

It feels like he may have puked, at some point.

He's kind of a lightweight, these days.

He thinks about waiting until he gets home to see the girl on floor sixteen.

But he does not think he can wait that long, so he gets on the internet and books a session with a woman in Hell's Kitchen.

He can get a hold of all the clothes at a department store. She will have everything else, of course, being a professional. He read all the reviews thoroughly before sending her an email, outlining his preferred scenario, He takes a taxi to Barney's. He buys himself a pair of sunglasses -- Prada sunglasses -- and two new pocket squares, when he is there. He asks them to cut the tags off the sunglasses and he puts them on inside. They help a little bit, but everything feels far too bright and loud. Eduardo is sure that he looks like a prick, but he can't be bothered to care.

"Can I help you, sir?" the salesgirls ask, as he exits from the escalator onto another floor.

"No, I'm fine," he says, waving them off. "It's for my girlfriend."

In the women's department he buys underwear in two colors.

Red. Black.

They wrap everything in tissue paper. He takes a cab there, stopping at an ATM to withdraw cash. In the back of the taxi, he looks at the email again. Peter has texted two more times, but he has not written him back yet.

He has enough presence of mind to feel bad about this, however, and thumbs in a sliver of a lie, waiting on the stoop for her to answer the door.

 _Sorry. Things have been so busy! Catching up with my sister. I'll write you from the airport. E_

He hears locks and latches being undone, and she opens the door, beckoning him inside.

She's beautiful, of course, and wearing boots, as requested, which make her stand taller, pitched forward five inches onto her tiptoes like a Korean Barbie. He double checked that part; it's important to him.

She brings him inside. They talk and she's sweet and he gives her money and then the bag, from Barney's. She sends him in to the bathroom to shower and change.

He does what he needs to do.

He takes a lot of deep breaths as he soaps himself up, cleans himself out.

Eduardo knows he will feel better afterward, when it is over.

The thing about Eduardo, is that he's really not any good at being out of control. He kept it together to graduate magna cum laude, in part because he buried himself in school and there were no boys, back them, after _he_ left.

There was a girl, senior year, and she was fantastic.

She _got_ him.

He stayed away from boys and men and bars, while he was still in Boston.

And then after graduation he went back to Miami, to see his family, and his father was drunk and loud and then he ignored him.

Eduardo started going out, to clubs with his cousins, the wild ones.

He tried to be vacant, to party.

He wore tight pants and put gunk in his hair and went dancing, in Miami, the heart of Latin America.

He kissed girls and boys and women and men, for a couple of weeks, and started sleeping with the owner of one of the clubs, who was huge and hulking and almost certainly a criminal.

But his father yelled, of course, that Eduardo was nothing more than a _good-for-nothing shiftless faggot layabout_ and Eduardo ditched his nice suits and packed jeans and t-shirts and flew away, to Europe, without saying goodbye to anyone.

And he really tried, he _tried_ to be spontaneous, to be _free_ , to be fucking _young_ and _irresponsible_ and he was always with people, always with acquaintances or friends or fuck-buddies, and he was lonelier than before.

After he saw him, there, in California, he decided to stop trying to run away. He opted to grow up, again, in his own way, and he opted to forget, to the best of his ability.

Honestly, he did okay. He's not a shiftless party boy, he's not a broken hearted burnout.

But he needs this to function. To keep all that history at bay.

This is what the book should have been like.

Or the movie.

This is the bleeding, this is the bloodletting.

This is what lowers his core temperature enough to go on.

Right now he is shaking and trying to keep his mind on the present, not reeling back over snippets of memories, images from the past.

Even though, of course, the things in that bag make him revisit the past, as well. Blowjobs in bathrooms, dramatized just as he told the writer. Shaky laughter emanating from one stall over.

That part was all true.

 _Asshole._

Eduardo has booked three hours. In Singapore he only needs two.

He suspects that today will be a little different.

She is good, better than the woman on floor sixteen because she is a native English speaker and she is absolutely _terrifying._

Eduardo is turned on, but also afraid.

Some of it is the same as what he does, with Jan. The kneeling, the change of tone, the downcast eyes. The underwear he had never done until that last time, and now he wants to do it again. It felt amazing. So he has brought a similar pair that he is wearing, on all fours on her black parquet floor.

He's tied up, hands and feet both.

...And she makes him lick her shoes.

...And she kicks him, in the ribs.

...And she stands on his fingers until they go numb.

Eduardo prefers that she not scream or shout. Shouting is too close to _parental_. Instead she talks in this low firm tone that he can feel in his sacrum, sending shivers up his back.

She spanks him like that...

She whips his ass like that...

She puts on a harness and fucks him, just like that...

Eduardo does not get off, even though she nails him, right there, so fucking close, but she's good and she backs off, every single time he gets close until he is choking out sobs.

And then she grabs his hair and shoves his face in her crotch and he makes her come, a bunch of times...

And then she hits him, across the face, until his eyes water and tears drip off his chin...

And only then does she put him on his back and suck him off, smearing red lipstick all over him...

She does not swallow when he comes.

And then, right after, it is like something opens inside and he cries and cries and cries.

She holds him and says, "It's okay, Wardo, it's okay, baby," and he buries his face in her lap and his face crumples and he does not look pretty. His head hurts and his face goes all red and he is all snotty and he cries, for all the times he could not, all the hurt he can't seem to let go of completely, because hurt is bound up with love, a certain kind of love, a time, a place, a person, and if you let the hurt go away, the other one does, too.

She rubs his back and smooths his hair and he feels better.

She brings him water and he drinks it, and then he goes to take another shower.

She kisses him on the cheek before he leaves, and he tips her, well, more than the session costs.

And then he goes back to the hotel, to the room which has been cleaned, and he packs his stuff.

He downloads a second copy of the book onto his Kindle.

He reads two-thirds of it that night.

He sleeps well, and on Sunday he flies back. He finishes the book on the plane. He reads the email again, and he composes drafts in his head.

 _Go fuck yourself._

 _I don't need this shit in my life._

 _It's too late._

 _You're still a fucking asshole._

Things go on like this for another two months.

The movie opens in Singapore on the twenty-eighth of October. He goes to see it in the theatre. It is less painful this time around, but only because he knows what happens next.

He already knows, now.

The rain eases up. He gets another suit made when he goes to Hong Kong, and after the fittings and after dinner he and Peter have great wine and great sex, and he feels like a grown-up.

He is not falling in love, because he has always been too goddamned emotional; he feels too much, rather than thinking.

And Eduardo knows he needs to think before he acts.

So on the flights there and back; in taxis; in the shower -- he thinks about it.

And it seems like a good idea.

Peter loves him, he tells him this, in the moments after sex when Eduardo is perfectly boneless. He's English, this is as effusive as he gets.

He had fantastic hands. Fingers that know tricks. He does this, this _thing_ when he has Eduardo splayed underneath him on the bed, where he presses two fingers right under his oblique muscle until his leg flops out to the side, first on the right, then the left. And then he pushes his thumbs into the hinge of Eduardo's ass and it pushes him _forward_ and he licks him until he can't speak and can't see, and it's quiet and lovely.

Peter has good taste in music, and he has a perfectly filthy smile, and eyes that are wicked with intelligence.

He always orders the right thing, and he understands silences.

He doesn't push, and he doesn't treat Eduardo like a child.

Eduardo will be twenty-nine in four months; Eduardo is an adult.

So he decides that he will love Peter, like an adult.

They continue what they do.

He tells him in so many words about the movie thing, the money thing, because the Hong Kong premiere is on the eighteenth of November, and that damn billboard comes there as well.

It's like one of those old paintings. Eduardo feels like those eyes are following him, no matter which way he goes.

So Peter knows as much as he needs to.

Eduardo sees who he needs to.

In early December the girl on sixteen lashes him so hard that he can't shower the next day. He has to sponge himself off to get clean enough for work.

And Jan puts him in underwear, or stockings, which he rips holes in and finger-fucks Eduardo through until his dick drools on the sheets.

He calls Miami once a month.

Peter takes him to England in the winter. They spend two days in London, which are fantastic. The department stores are gorgeous, and there's a gastropub revival, not to mention real fish and chips, wrapped in newsprint -- and Christmas markets and _cold,_ real cold, where you can see your breath in the air.

They spend the holiday with Peter's family in Scotland.

Eduardo wears cashmere sweaters and two pairs of socks, because the house is _freezing._

They have separate rooms, which is actually quite sexy. "All this sneaking about in darkened hallways after hours" -- Peter says, to his neck, rubbing his warm body against Eduardo's and covering his mouth with his hand when he moans -- "I spend all damn day thinking about getting you naked," he growls as Eduardo arches up into him.

The bed is ancient; it creaks like crazy and the headboard thumps against the wall with every thrust.

Eduardo is pretty sure everyone can discern that they are having sex, but no one brings it up. There are no coy glances at the breakfast table, over the toast and bacon and fried tomatoes.

Everyone other than Eduardo drinks tea.

There are dogs all over the place, and his sweaters have random dog hairs on them at all times.

Peter makes them take walks, in the freezing cold.

Eduardo does not love the walks, but he likes the whiskey in the living room when they've finished, the way it makes his stomach warm up.

And he loves taking a bath after, either alone or not.

They are in London for New Year's Eve, and when Big Ben tolls at midnight Peter kisses Eduardo in front of dozens of people at a party with Krug champagne and miniature crab cakes.

It's impossible to get a taxi home. They walk and they hold hands and stop on corners to make out, drunkenly, because it is a new year, 2011, and everyone is optimistic.

Eduardo is also optimistic.

But here's the ironic thing.

Proving once _a-fucking-gain_ that fate has a cruel sense of humor.

In 2011, Eduardo Saverin -- who has been living a life neither underground nor off-the-grid, but on the down-low -- in 2011 Eduardo Saverin becomes _famous._

People start to do say, "Hang on, do I know you from somewhere?" and he shakes his head, _no._

And he is all fucking over the internet, which freaks him out so bad.

It's not like the old days, Nazi war criminals hiding out in Argentina; mobsters going missing in Mexico, when people could just _disappear._

Because now, of course, everything is digital, replicable, ubiquitous.

So people now know that he is _that_ Eduardo Saverin.

And the movie, Jesus, is everywhere, even in Singapore, even in Hong Kong.

There is _Oscar buzz_ and all of these _interviews_ and then the DVD comes out, and he watches it, again, and listens to the commentaries and listens to the guy who plays him -- like him, but askew, like him, but off, only so-slightly -- who is fucking _English_ actually, not American or Brazilian or Hispanic, talk, about _the other character_ it's just beyond weird.

Because he says so many things that sound not quite like how he felt.

Like, there are some glaring fucking omissions in what this guy says.

 _Platonic love story?_

 _Brother?_

 _Male girlfriend but without the sex?_

That stuff makes him sound, you know, like a fucking _dope._

But he is kind of right, in a way.

In that it is, or was, or whatever -- a _one-sided_ love story.

The English guy is right about that part.

He missed the other part, though, the sexual part.

And he neglected to mention that there was, in matter of course, a third party. That _he_ loved, not someone else, but some _thing_ else, more than him.

He's not sure if the actor understands that or not.

The internet fills in the gaps, when he Googles his own name, which he does _all the damn time,_ even at work.

And it brings up the page that is still blank, but that he was linked to in the email, the one from September.

 _I set this up for you. If and when you're ever ready._

www.facebook.com/edsaverin

It's still empty.

It is the first fiscal quarter of the year and Peter has to work weekends, so he cannot visit. Eduardo is alone three weeks running, with his DVD commentary and his Kindle and his _stupid fucking memories_ and he is just pissed at himself for still caring so goddamn much.

And he's bored.

Horny.

And the fucking movie makes him look like a chump who could never get laid, a consummate dork.

Which, yeah, he's a little geeky, true, with the numbers and weather and love of black-and white movies, but _so what?_

Even in college, hell, before college, Eduardo never had any problems hooking up. Not, like, going all the way, or whatever. He's just always been good at finding someone to kiss.

Eduardo used to fucking _excel_ at making out.

Totally different from now, of course, where it is all the cool exchange of services for cash, or being learned by a lover, or spread wide open underneath someone who is still very much an enigma.

The years in Singapore have hardened Eduardo into a resolute capitalist. You get something, you give something. That is how everything works. Exchange value, Marx called it.

There is literally nothing to do with money but make more of it.

Marx said essentially that, in _Capital._

That capital begets more of its own.

Adam Smith said it, too.

It's the same, sort of, in the Talmud, but about good works.

And in the house where he grew up, the lesson was the same.

 _Go make more._

But money in its own right, like that? After a while it starts to get _boring._ Moving numbers around on a digital touch-screen, sixteen hours a day. Looking for patterns. Buying, selling. Meetings, phonecalls, lunches, dinners, functions.

When he is Googling his name he sees what the other guys are up to.

Chris is doing all this amazing shit.

Like, stuff that matters, stuff that means something.

While he hides out in a high-rise and makes more money than he knows what to do with.

It makes him feel like shit, even more than that movie does.

And Eduardo is still very attractive, to loads of people. Women, even. Hot girls, who are incredibly easy to flirt with.

He starts going out in the middle of the week, with his co-workers, to bars where girls dance on tables, for fun, not for money.

They do shots of Patrón and Eduardo dances with dozens of petite women with dark hair, and kisses them, too, when he's had enough tequila.

That's as far as it goes, just swaying kissing on dance floors, under flickering strobe lights. Eduardo's associates slap him on the back after one particularly vigorous makeout session with a tiny pale girl whose tits have gotta be fake -- 3-1 odds, he'd say.

"What?" he says, flagging the bartender for another rum and coke.

"Dude, that was _Rachel Kun!"_

"Who?"

"Only Miss fucking _Singapore_ _,_ Saverin. Nice one!"

"Oh," he says.

And then in this interconnected world, where he, Eduardo Saverin is _known,_ and _talked about,_ he has, of course, made out with a C-list celebrity. Oh, of course he did. It's on the internet within 48 hours. Well, that's just fucking _stellar._

Eduardo has had enough of being alone in Singapore. He misses Peter. Getting laid on a regular basis, of course. Having his head stroked while they watch television. Dinner conversation.

They do chat, but Eduardo feels incredibly weird trying to be sexy over the computer. It's so sterile -- no huffs of breath, no way to tell tone. And it's really hard to type one-handed.

The phone, with a headset on, works much better.

And listening to Peter purr instructions into his ear, that's really nice.

His voice is _so fucking hot._

Eduardo has always had a bit of a thing for accents.

Peter is breathless on the other end of the line, as Eduardo is fingering himself on the couch.

It's not bad.

He is alone, and yet not, with a posh voice in his ear and two fingers up his ass on a Tuesday night at eleven o'clock at night.

Jan comes to town a couple of times. Eduardo wants to break it off, because he's decided about the whole _love_ thing, but it's just -- it's so _good._

When he visits in January he puts Eduardo in black lace like before and fucks him from behind, the underwear just yanked over to the side, hands on his hips. He pushes bruises into his ass that last for ten days. When he looks on the internet, later, his fingers, unconsciously, brush against them, and he winces.

By February Eduardo is itchy for punishment, and not just a spanking.

He acts out on purpose.

He succeeds.

The welts on his ass attest to that.

He has to lie on his stomach for the rest of the weekend.

They didn't do the belt again, after the first night, but the merest brush of fingers over the raised bumps drove Eduardo fucking _crazy_ and soon he was the one doing all the work, fucking himself on hands and knees, not even being touched and the soft harsh voice from behind saying _there you go, ride that big dick, like a good boy_ and pain and pleasure all swirling together, just as he likes it.

Eduardo has gotten off and been talked down and he is lying on his side, his eyes droopy with exhaustion. He gets off so hard like that.

Jan is smoking in Eduardo's bed, which he hates, but he doesn't dare tell him _no._ The smell is comforting, even though it makes the sheets reek and he has to light scented candles when he leaves.

He brings it up, the _little movie he saw on the plane_ and Eduardo feels like ice.

And he starts asking him all these _questions,_ and like, insinuating that what _they_ do is a direct result of some partially made-up story. Which, no.

No, it's really not.

He closes off, and he doesn't fall asleep like he normally would. He lies with his eyes closed for a quarter of an hour, and then he gets up, and takes a shower.

Eduardo does not wait to be told that he can take a shower.

He just does it.

And then he comes back out, toweling himself off, and says, "I can't see you anymore. I'm really sorry."

And that is the end of that.

Eduardo goes to clubs on weekdays and kisses girls, and he hooks up with Miss Singapore, several times, in dark corners and toilet stalls.

They do not have sex, but they grope and kiss, sloppily.

He puts his hand under her bra, and finds that her tits are _definitely_ fake.

He goes to Hong Kong in early March and complains about his job during dinner. They are eating in.

"Quit," Peter says, pouring him more Sancerre.

"I can't just up and _leave,"_ Eduardo says, putting down his fork huffily.

Although he has been thinking about leaving.

The thing is, he doesn't want to be idle.

But he's going to go crazy moving those numbers around much longer. He can hire someone to manage his portfolio.

He needs something like what Chris has, in his life. Chris is getting married, too. He is younger than Eduardo and he is doing amazing things, for America.

Eduardo probably owes America something, himself.

A cause, or a calling. A _vocation,_ they say, in the books.

He has a lot of books on his Kindle, and he reads them, about what he's supposed to be doing, with his life. Tests and quizzes, like those might give him some answers.

He didn't get a perfect score on his SATs, but he tests okay, usually. He might take the LSAT. Or the GMAT. Possibly the GRE.

"What do you want to do?" Peter asks, resuming the conversation an hour and a half later, stroking Eduardo's bare shoulder.

"I don't know," he says, truthfully, to Peter's neck. "School, maybe, again?"

Peter pulls on bits of his hair. He loves that, how it makes his scalp prickle.

"Look into one of those executive MBA programs, perhaps?" he says. "Cornell's got a scheme where you do six weeks on five different continents."

"Nice gig if you can get it," Eduardo says, smiling into Peter's chest.

"Mmm," Peter answers, thinking. He adds, "Wharton has one on the west coast. San Fransisco, I think?"

Eduardo is not sure that he wants an MBA. He is actually thinking about law school. He could do pro bono work, for like, refugees, or victims of persecution. Something like that.

Maybe he could do venture capital, but like, _ethically._

He says this to Peter at breakfast the next morning.

And Peter gives him this look, and a small smile that makes him feel young and foolish, and slightly angry. Like he is a child who needs to be entertained with brightly colored toys while the _adults_ do the proper work. Like he doesn't know, yet, how the world works.

He knows all too fucking well, how it works.

"But yeah," he says, stirring his coffee, "I'll look at the Wharton thing at the end of the month, since I'll be in California."

"You will?" Peter asks, surprised.

"Annual shareholders meeting," he says.

"Oh," Peter answers, and goes back to the newspaper.

That statement is as good as a commitment. He tells Janice to go, too, but that he's thinking of coming, to make sure they know. He tells himself that he's just going to check out business school stuff.

Eduardo books a ticket to SFO from Singapore. He brings his laptop with him, and his Kindle, and he reads that ridiculous book again, on the plane, flying east into earlier than when he left.

~

He goes to the hotel where they are holding it, in downtown Palo Alto.

It's all incredibly surreal.

But he does not actually go in, to the meeting.

He sort of lurks around, and ducks his head in to the room, and imagines that the backs of heads are people he knows, from the past. A woman with a clipboard gives him a funny look and says, "Are you here for Facebook?" and he sees _them,_ sitting on a stage in front of an audience of smug rich assholes, and he doesn't want to be one of those smug rich assholes, and he says, "No, sorry, sorry. Wrong room," and he takes off, down the hall.

Eduardo cannot push the elevator button fast enough.

He doesn't run into anyone, thank fuck.

Of course, he imagines that he will.

He is seriously freaked out.

What the hell was he _thinking_ , coming here?

He has a drink.

He calls Hong Kong, where it is late, and he has a boyfriend, that he legitimately misses.

Eduardo sits with the lights switched off in his hotel room and drinks four tiny bottles of bourbon from the minibar.

And then he opens the email, and he reads it, again.

He clicks on the link that _he_ sent in the fall.

It's all a lot easier to navigate than it was the last time he used it.

In the tech journals they call it _usability._

So he sets it up.

Name: Eduardo Saverin  
Location: Singapore  
Date of Birth: March 19, 1982  
College: Harvard University, Cambridge, Massachusetts.  
Status: In a Relationship

He puts up a picture, as well, though it's horribly out of date and his hair looks funny.

He clicks around until he finds what he's looking for.

 _Chris Hughes' Wall_

 _Write something._

He scrunches up his mouth and types, slowly.

"Congratulations to you and Sean. Love, Eduardo."

It is ten whole minutes before he clicks "share," and then he lets out a breath, a long, shaky breath that he has been holding in for what feels like five years.

He thinks about going out, but where the _fuck_ is he going to go, in downtown Palo Alto? Some bar frequented by Stanford students, the under twenty-one crowd sporting fakes from New Mexico and Idaho.

No, thank you.

That's never been his style.

If he were younger, maybe; a different person, certainly, then maybe he would call a taxi and go out. Find someone to kiss in a corner, someone with the same sort of hair or eyes, and just, fuck, pretend for a little while.

That is what a lot of people would do.

But Eduardo is involved, with someone, he has said this on Facebook.

It is public, now. Like him, it is _out there._

And plus, he is going to _change things._

Because it's not always how it works out, that the person you love when you're nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, it's not always going to be _that person._

You can grow out of love.

Eduardo is entirely sure of this.

If you can fall into it, you have to be able to grow out of it. And he figures, of course, that the opposite is true -- that you can grow _into_ it, too. He's trying.

So he stays in, he does not go prowling -- a man who is nearing thirty and still picking up teenagers. He is not like _them._

There is other booze in the minibar, but Eduardo doesn't want gin or tequila or scotch.

He doesn't really know what he wants.

Eduardo curls up in the fetal position with his clothes still on and lies there, just drunk enough so that the room shakes at the edges, and tries to slow down his heart, his brain, his everything.

It doesn't work too well, not really. But it happens, eventually.

He falls asleep on top of the covers.

(He will not remember, the next day, that he cries himself to sleep.)

There are more Facebook things going on, on Thursday, at the hotel, but Eduardo just leaves the room without checking out, after calling a car service. They have all his credit card information, they'll figure out he's gone.

Eduardo is perfectly within his rights to leave without seeing any of them. He doesn't owe them anything.

But because he feels bad, of course, about the gigantic carbon footprint he's imposed just on a stupid _whim,_ he goes into the city and looks at the Wharton EMBA campus. First, though, they swing by the new office setup, in Menlo Park.

It's only natural that he be curious about where they are now, given that he is a stakeholder once more.

San Francisco feels so very small. Even the financial district seems tiny. There's so much sky.

He's not ready for that yet, that openness.

And then he is driven straight to the airport, where he books the next trans-Pacific flight he can get, to Narita, and then onward to Hong Kong.

He sits in the executive lounge and drinks more Maker's on the rocks and watches planes come and go.

And then he sends an email, to his boyfriend, who appreciates him, and who know you're supposed to wear a tie to the annual shareholders meeting, not a sweatshirt and cargo pants.

Eduardo is pretty sure nothing short of an audience with the President of the United States would get _him_ into a suit and tie.

The thought actually makes him smile, and then he shakes his head, finishes his drink, and gets on his plane to cross the ocean, once more.

He has a layover in Tokyo, where he gets shiatsu and takes a nap.

Peter sends the car to pick him up.

He should sleep when he gets there, but he's giddy.

And kind of nasty horny, since it's been like six weeks since they've been together. Not to mention that he really missed that scratchy voice, all secret and dirty, in his ear.

They do not make any of their reservations the rest of the weekend, which is just fine with Eduardo.

Plus, he tells him some stuff.

Not loads of stuff, certainly not _all of it,_ but he does tell him he wants it rough sometimes, and he drops a hint that they should bring someone else in, once in a while.

Just to keep it interesting.

Peter gives him a look that's part incredulous and part super into it, and they have some seriously _awesome_ sex, all weekend long.

Eduardo is very certain that he has made the right choice.

~

He returns to Singapore and starts researching law schools.

Eduardo quits his job, and decides to prep for the exams -- all three of them -- and do applications and things.

He keeps his place in Singapore, of course, with all of his stuff.

However, he keeps a suitcase packed, for when he feels like it, for a few days or a week at a time.

Probably he won't go to get an MBA. Unless he's going to specialize in nonprofits or something. There are some advantages to that. There's a program in Seattle. That's another rainy city.

Hong Kong is not so rainy, not nearly so much as Singapore, but that's fine by him. The food is better, there. He can get high once in a while, and he doesn't have to work. There is an espresso machine in Peter's kitchen, and he studies for _hours,_ forgetting to eat because he's so over-caffeinated. By the time he remembers lunch it's nearing on evening, when cafecitos give way to red wine.

He makes them dinner, sometimes, or they go out. But he really only eats that one meal a day, and his pants hang on him more loosely at the end of the summer.

Test prep is exhausting and his shoulders are always cramped from doing example problems. In Singapore he gets massages, the deep-tissue kind. When he visits Peter they go for massages together, sometimes, or Peter will rub Eduardo's back a little bit before spooning him from behind and biting his shoulder as he touches him in front.

Besides the studying he cooks, and he reads. He cleans his own place, but Peter has a maid. Eduardo feels weird being there when she is there, this solidly built woman who moves with brisk efficiency.

Eduardo knows about the shocking gaps between rich and poor. Here, and at home, whether that be Singapore, or Brazil, or even (and especially) America.

He knows what Peter pays her.

And that makes him feel like an asshole, because he can afford to be sitting around on his ass making flashcards while she scrubs the floor.

He is being _idle._

Once upon a time he would have added that to the festering pile of self-hatred he'd have to get someone else to say, quarterly, whether for money or for fun.

And Lord, is it hard to let go of without that.

Now he goes to a yoga center and tries to get his heels to touch the ground in downward dog, or to align his chakras through triangle pose.

It's just another kind of superstition, yoga, like Kabbalah or Wicca. But it calms him down. It makes his breathing regular and it makes his mind -- not _blank,_ unfortunately, but more still -- lose a little of its sharp edge.

And he takes breaks to go online, too. The storm has died down, he's less high-profile, but he keeps his Facebook page public, and he accepts every friend request he gets.

It scares him a little how fucking tight their algorithms are. People start finding him. Friends from college, sure, but prep school, grade school. Extended family members he hasn't seen in a decade start sending him friend requests. Miss Singapore finds him, and all his old coworkers, even a couple of people from that disastrous fucking summer in New York.

It boggles his mind.

He just snoops around, seeing what people are up to, what they've made of their lives.

Who got married, who had a baby. Where they live, what they do.

Where did they go on vacation? Did they start to lose their hair, get a beer gut? Or do they work for the Clinton Foundation in Liberia? Did they learn viniculture, write a screenplay, complete a triathalon?

It tends to make him feel bad about his own choices, like everyone else is doing something _incredible,_ and he just lives off his dividends and rich banker boyfriend, so he doesn't post a lot. Nothing important, and absolutely nothing personal. Just that he got an iPad 2, or liked the new Arcade Fire album, or is headed to Dubai on holiday, or took the GMAT that morning, or finally mastered a headstand in class.

But when he does, every single time, he gets an email.

 _Mark Zuckerberg liked your status._

Without fail.

He does well on the GMAT; slightly less so on the LSAT; not well at all on the GRE. He wants to take the exams again to do applications in the spring, and thinks about hiring a tutor, or taking a prep course.

Things are good, for the most part.

The travel back and forth remains the same, but he stays longer and longer, spends less time in Singapore, and thinks about hiring movers, or putting his things in storage.

Peter is working, and he works like Eduardo used to, lots of late nights and client dinners.

Eduardo doesn't really mind.

He studies and goes to yoga class, drinks wine, watches home improvement shows.

Sometimes he is asleep, fully clothed, by the time Peter comes home.

But other than that, everything with them is good. The sex is really good.

They do this thing, now, sometimes, when Eduardo feels restless and like he might want to fool around with someone. He goes out and has drinks, alone, and he flirts and dances and gets bought drinks.

But before he goes out he sends Peter a text, letting him know that he is going to do this.

And usually, within the hour, Peter will have found his way to whatever club or dimly lit bar Eduardo is at.

But instead of taking him home in the car, like his boyfriend, Peter will pretend that they have just met.

Eduardo absolutely _loves_ this game.

Because it makes him feel wanted, of course, and he likes being watched, as well. Peter will kiss him with tongue and grab his ass while they dance, and Eduardo likes knowing that he is the most beautiful thing under all those flashing lights and spinning bodies.

They make out in bathrooms, which are kind of gross, but Eduardo takes the seedy edge in whatever ways he can find it.

They have a couple of threesomes, which are also fun.

Then they go to a club, together, and speculate, with lingering glances and exchanged whispers.

Peter likes boys who look like Eduardo, give or take. Dark hair, dark eyes, tall, thin.

Eduardo doesn't mind as long as they are not prettier than him.

They usually aren't.

Not until they spend a five day weekend in London, in the fall. They eat at Heston Blumenthal's restaurant in the Berkshires, and they go shopping, and on the fourth night they pick up a curly haired Irish boy with green eyes.

He is thinner than Eduardo and he has bigger eyes than Eduardo and he has a _sexy_ fucking accent, and a bit of a swagger, and Peter is really into him, Eduardo can tell.

He spends the night, in the hotel with them, which is not something they have ever done before. The other couple of times, the other person left immediately afterward.

They all eat breakfast together in the morning, in the room. There are only two bathrobes, so Peter puts on jeans and a v-neck cashmere sweater, and they all sit there and eat breakfast, like nothing is unusual, nothing out of the ordinary has happened.

Eduardo feels oddly prudish, and he drinks his coffee with a grimace.

The two of them are drinking tea.

Peter, and the curly-haired one.

Eduardo is not sure what he hates more -- this other gangly-limbed boy, or his stupid, stupid, _stupid_ hair.

It's the hair that sticks in his mind, the hair that makes him reminisce.

Peter likes watching someone else suck Eduardo off.

Like, he _really_ likes it.

When there are three of them he is, of course, in charge, so they do that.

But he is not as harsh as Eduardo would like.

And seeing him with someone else, when he is lying next to them on the bed, watching him with someone who loves being on top and being bossy, pushy, in ways Eduardo has long since forgotten how to be, it makes him feel sad.

Eduardo is a good boyfriend, though, and he wants to keep Peter interested, so he takes care of himself. He goes to yoga and eats fruit and does crunches, on the floor of the living room, in front of the cascading wall of windows.

 _If you get fat and old they lose interest, you'll see when you're my age,_ he heard his mother say to his sister, once, when he was on a visit home from college. At the time he had thought _how horrible_ but now, he thinks his mother may have been on to something.

She's still married to his father, after all, when everyone else's fathers are on their third and fourth wives, with children spaced two decades apart.

Never mind that he knows his father has affairs, that they sleep in separate bedrooms and have since he was born, that it was her Valium he started stealing back in seventh grade.

Never mind the surgery and the implants, the frenzied Pilates, the chain-smoking of cigarettes to avoid solid food at all costs, the times she had to be rushed to the emergency room with _nervous exhaustion._

She was still right.

As he narrows down the field of potential schools and starts to draft statements of purpose -- what _does he_ hope to achieve by studying immigration law at Princeton, really, why _does he_ want a Wharton EMBA, and _what has_ he been up to since college?

Oh, nothing much.

 _Just some litigation lasting four years and ending up in the transfer of hundreds of millions of dollars. The end of the story, the last fucking time I saw someone who meant the goddamned world to me._

Eduardo can't exactly write that on his applications.

Or --

 _Trying to lose myself in drugs and sex to compensate for a fucking broken heart, clearly. That's why I didn't score so high on the exam, you see. I had a hangover, and had been out all night having a hollow time._

Or --

 _Because I can't keep doing this shit anymore, my soul will die._

That's probably not the kind of stuff they want to hear, so writing the statements of purpose proves impossibly hard.

He makes up stories that could maybe be true, plans he concocts to return to Brazil and work with ethnic Japanese guest workers who were forced to return against their will, or indigenous patent law, to protect the tribes of the Amazon, their native medicines plundered by pharmaceutical companies.

This is the stuff Peter scoffs at, Eduardo's newly developed weird sense of ethics.

Eduardo does not even want to think about the year-end bonus Peter will get; it makes him feel a little ill.

Peter mentions it, though, and says something about the Maldives or maybe Bali.

He is being generous, part of a couple, who wants to take Eduardo to the beach, like _he likes._

In no way shape or form does he deserve to be _liked._

For all the numbers moving around, he always understood the supply chain.

There was always someone at the bottom, the lowest of the low.

And that is why he can never be truly ruthless, and he will not be a success in business.

This is what he needs to say to his father, so he resolves, against his better judgment to go to Miami for Thanksgiving.

It is wholly unprecedented, that he wants to go to Miami.

But people are _in touch_ with him. Like, his sister, and cousins, and all these people from Miami, who write on his wall, all the time, and send him messages and _poke_ him, which is odd, but feels reassuring, sort of, like an _hey, I know you're there, I'm here, too._

Peter isn't on Facebook. He thinks it's juvenile.

Eduardo can tell that he finds him amusing -- his newfound idealism, his student-like study habits, the stories he tells about possible futures.

"I could make a call, Eduardo, you don't need to worry about your test scores," Peter had reminded him, more than once.

"I know," he had huffed out, rubbing his temples, "but that feels like _cheating."_

Part of the reason Eduardo does not want an MBA is that he wants to be an honest person, but also an unconnected person.

Eduardo wants to do things on his own, not because an influential someone made a call on his behalf.

But he does appreciate the sentiment.

Peter takes care of him, he cares.

In bed he will be gruff against Eduardo's ear, now, and he will smack his ass a few times when he fucks him on all fours, and it's not really what Eduardo needs, not really, but he tries to make it suffice.

He closes his eyes and thinks of black underwear, of danger and dark, mean things.

But the night in London sticks with him. It's still stuck there, two months later. Of threading his hands in curls and just being able to feel them, sliding between his fingers. Out of everything else -- the way his eyelashes fanned out thick across his cheeks, or the wicked drag of his tongue, or how he made fucking _eye contact_ as Eduardo came in long pulses against his face, and licked his lips, afterward, in a gesture that was like an embodied echo of a long time ago -- that is what sticks.

The night before he flies out they have sex, where Eduardo's back arches up off the bed, Peter's fingers prising him open, his own hands fisted in the sheets. He is wheezing and trying so hard to think of something else, _anything fucking else_ but, that, of course, would be too easy. Just _something, Jesus._

Not blue eyes.

Not curly hair.

Please, not _that again._


	5. Miami

He flies north, over the top of the earth.

 _HKG -- ORD -- MIA_

There is a delay in Chicago, because of ice. He arrives late in Miami. Their driver picks him up. His name is Raoul.

He has worked for Eduardo's father since they moved here.

It is warm in Miami, and they drive on the freeway back to his parents' house, where his mother has fallen asleep on the sofa, an empty bottle of white wine on the table, the fake gas logs lit in the fireplace.

The night temperature barely dips below sixty.

"Mamãe," he whispers shaking her awake.

Her eyelids flutter open and she smiles. He touches her cheek, crepey and soft.

"Eduardo," she murmurs. "I was waiting up for you, anjo."

"You should sleep," he says, in Portuguese, as she starts to sit up.

"Do you want something to eat?" she asks. Eduardo shakes his head _no,_ although he is, frankly, starving.

Eduardo's mother does not know how to cook. There will be nothing in the kitchen besides a dusty box of chamomile tea, jars of instant espresso, cases of Chablis, and premeasured meals from Medifast in the refrigerator, a couple of ancient Lean Cuisines in the deep freeze.

Their cook Xuxu -- who came with them from Brazil, because Eduardo's mother could not prepare feijoada like his father liked so much -- was gone, back to her own family, to a small suburb outside São Paulo.

Since she left, there has not been much to eat in the house, unless they get caterers in, for a party.

"Come to bed," Eduardo says, clearing away the wine bottle and glass, extinguishing the logs. His mother yawns, smiles at him, sleepily.

"Your sister will be here tomorrow, Wardo," she tells him. He does not bother asking where his father is, knowing that she will tell him a lie. That he is away on business, or at a meeting. Edaurdo knows he is probably in a back room somewhere in Little Havana.

He walks his mother up to her room and puts her to bed. He goes into her bathroom and opens up the medicine cabinet, taking six of everything for later. He slips the pills into an empty bottle, and then takes two Valium. Then he shakes out two more for his mother, which he brings her, along with a glass of water from the bathroom sink. Eduardo sits on the edge of her bed, in the dark, until he hears her breathing become slow and regular.

He sends a text saying he's arrived, checks his email, and wanders down the hall to Bina's old room, rather than to his own.

His father sleeps at the other end of the house, when he comes home.

If he comes home.

Eduardo's mother does not complain, because she is just glad to still be married.

"It's too hard to find someone else, at my age, anjo," she said, to him, years and years ago. It's probably even more difficult now, even though she is still very beautiful, in her own way. She has forced her face to be young, her body to be tight, her demeanor to be perfect.

Someone else might want to marry her, Eduardo has thought, but he knows she would never leave.

He goes into Bina's room and lies on her bed, staring at the ceiling, until he falls asleep.

It is noon when he wakes up, because _she_ is there, storming in the door in a bright jangle of suitcases.

His first thought, when he sees her, is that _she is wearing too much makeup._

But then she drops all her suitcases on the floor and shrieks his name and jumps on him, in a giant hug, and when she kisses him, then, it doesn't matter if her lipstick leaves marks, or if he can only catch a trace of her scent under her perfume.

“Barulhenta como sempre, parece,” he says, watching her eyes light up.

"What the hell are you wearing?" she teases back, pushing him back and looking at him.

He fell asleep in his suit, with his tie undone. Everything is wrinkled.

Bina pushes her bracelets up her arm as she scrutinizes him, "We're going to have to take you shopping, Wardo. You can't move in those pants."

He laughs, happy, genuinely, for the first time in a long time.

Eduardo takes a shower and changes, and then they go meet his mother at the club, where they sit on the patio. She can smoke on the patio.

His mother puts her cigarettes into a holder carved from rosewood. All three of them order Caesar salad with shrimp and dressing on the side.

Bina is the only one who uses any of her salad dressing, and is the only one who clears her plate. She has put on weight, living in Washington. Eduardo does not say anything, nor does his mother.

They finish two bottles of wine between them. His mother goes inside to have a treatment and he and Bina make Raoul swing by the liquor store on the way home.

Back at the house they change into their swimsuits and lay by the pool. It is chilly, though the sun is bright.

When she is in her bikini he can see where she has gained weight.

She is heavier around the ankles, than she used to be.

Eduardo knows that if he asks she will claim something about working too much, but he knows that she takes antidepressants that, no matter how much she runs on the treadmill, keep her fifteen pounds over what she should be.

They lie by the pool and drink mojitos, texting, talking to one another intermittently.

"Do you want to go out tonight?" she asks, looking up from painting her toenails. The smell of acetone cuts through the air, harsh and chemical, as she cleans up the drips with a q-tip.

"If you want," he says, peering over the top of his sunglasses. "Are we supposed to have family time?"

She snorts out a laugh.

"Have you seen him yet?"

"No."

"Me either."

"How long has it been?" he asks, after a pause.

"Not long, they visited D.C. in the spring," she says.

Eduardo feels his throat tighten, since, after all, they never bothered to visit _him._

The last time they visited was college. Graduation, they came up for graduation.

He feels jealous, which is stupid.

She puts her hand on his and says, "You know how he is, querido."

"I know," he says, rubbing his thumb over her hand. He thinks for a minute.

"Yeah, sure, let's go out," he decides.

She squeaks out a little happy noise and says, "Do you want to swim?"

Eduardo does not want to get his hair wet so he does not get in the pool with her. Bina dives into the deep end and swims laps for a while. He watches her, through the amber haze of his sunglasses. When she gets out she has goosebumps on her legs.

“Está um gelo aqui fora,” she splutters, toweling off her hair.

Eduardo looks at the backs of her legs when she bends over. She does not have a flat rear, like his mother. She looks properly Brazilian, now that she's eating again.

She looks good heavier, he thinks, shading his eyes to watch her, and then turning pink when she catches him looking.

Her hair is already starting to frizz up.

That's why he didn't get in.

His mother comes back later, for happy hour.

The three of them have a drink together by the pool, and then get changed for dinner. Family time.

Bina does not like the suit he is wearing, he can tell. She wrinkles up her nose at him when she adjusts his tie.

"What?" he says, when she backs away.

"Let's go shopping tomorrow," she says.

He pretends to protest, but he doesn't mind, really.

Raoul drives them to a churrascaria in South Beach, which is Bina's favorite.

His father arrives twenty minutes late. He shakes Eduardo's hand, kisses his mother on both cheeks, and hugs Bina tight, lifting her heels off the ground.

Eduardo's throat is constricted when they sit back down.

Bina did make his tie quite tight.

Dinner is subdued. There is drinking, talk about the markets with Eduardo and not much else. The smell of meat and smoke pervades everything. It makes Eduardo's eyes sting, and even though his mouth waters, he cannot seem to make himself hungry.

Eduardo and his mother do not eat very much, and they do not order dessert, only espressos, after.

His mother looks happy, Jacobina looks happy. Eduardo just tries to be something other than resentful.

They are drinking their coffee when Bina gets a message on her phone.

"Blanca está aqui para nos pegar," she says to the table.

"Tell her hello," says their father, and their mother chimes in, "And that we'll see them tomorrow.”

Kisses and handshakes are exchanged and the two of them finish their coffee, quickly, and leave.

Blanca is waiting for them outside, smoking a cigarette.

"Hay que ustedes están!"

Bina runs over to her and they hug one another and squeal like teenagers.

"Careful, careful," she says, in Spanish, "I don't want to set you on fire."

She takes another long drag and then grinds her cigarette out on the sidewalk.

"Wardo, baby," she says, putting a hand on either side of his face.

"Hey, mamacita," he says. "You look amazing."

He is not lying, although her eye makeup looks like it's been worn two days running. She's still gorgeous, with an incredible body. Whatever she is wearing is tight, and silky, and makes him feel the need to get his tie off, right away.

He undoes it and balls it up, handing it to Bina.

"Can you put this in your purse?" he asks. Their fingers touch when she takes it. He undoes the top three buttons of his shirt and says, "Vamos a bailar o qué?"

They get in Blanca's black Suburban. The back seat is littered with empty cans of Diet Coke and sugar-free Red Bull.

Bina turns on the radio to a salsa station, and Eduardo rolls down his window, trying to decide if he's happy to be there, or not.

But it's nice to be back, even if Miami is sort of tacky, Wardo thinks, that is part of its charm.

They drive around and get more sugar-free Red Bull and gum at the convenience store. Blanca buys more cigarettes, and Bina _tsks_ at him when he gets a pack, too.

“Seus pobres pulmões,” she scowls, wrinkling her nose up.

He shrugs and tamps the pack down on his wrist. They smoke outside, him and Blanca.

"¿Todavía partido?" she asks, quietly, when Bina goes to make a call. He takes a drag and exhales, heavily.

"Por supuesto, niña," he says, without looking at her.

"What about her?" she goes on.

Wardo shakes his head, looks down at the Marlboro between his fingers like it has the answers.

"No, she's -- no. Don't --" and he pauses, feels guilty for a split second, "-- don't tell her, okay?"

"Course not. She's _good_ now, right?" she says, with equal parts disdain and amusement.

He is quiet for a long moment.

"She's always been good," he answers, and then they are both quiet. He can hear crickets, the heavy drag of bass from low riding cars. Somewhere underneath that is the purr of high tide, though they are not close enough to the beach to really hear it.

They bounce between clubs, a drink or two here, a cigarette there, a dance somewhere else, until they end up at a place in the city with a vibe they all three like, the sounds of Spanish and English and salsa and rap mingled all around them, the smell of tequila and rum and pomade and stale cigar smoke hanging in the air.

Bina and Wardo speak Portuguese to one another, but the rest of the time they speak in Spanish.

It is a salsa club. The music is Afro-Caribbean. The lights are dim and the beat is intoxicating.

Blanca is Cuban.

Her family is even wealthier than Wardo's.

She is the girl his father wanted him to marry.

Not for love, of course, but to solidify the connection between the Saverins and the Garcia family.

Blanca did not want to marry Eduardo, however, either, although sometimes he thought that maybe he would marry her and buy a place in Coral Gables and Bina could live down the road, in her own house. Like their neighbor.

He never did like the thought of _her_ getting married, however.

The two girls were best friends, growing up.

He's never known how much Blanca knows.

That's why she's discreet, with the drugs, why she sends texts telling friends from high school where they end up, so Bina has boys to dance with, and girls to catch up with, and she and Wardo can slink off to the bathroom in turn without her getting too suspicious.

Blanca scores them an eight ball, which Wardo pays for.

It's good shit.

He hasn't done coke for like, four plus years?

They drink Cuba Libres and go out for cigarettes after every trip to the bathroom, smoking and sniffing and then chomping on gum.

Eduardo drapes his jacket over the back of a chair and goes to dance with Blanca.

She moves pretty well, though she stumbles a couple of times and falls forward into his arms, laughing. It's from her dress, probably, which is a banded style, tight, off-white.

Her hair feels smooth and so do her shoulders.

She does not stick around, though, because she spots someone on the dance floor, a man. She curses under her breath, mutters, "quién coño es esa puta," and then she storms off, leaving Eduardo without a partner.

Bina comes to dance with him, which is dangerous, he knows, in salsa, especially.

The club is too hot.

Heart trouble does run in the family.

His father has had two episodes already.

And he has high cholesterol.

He pushes his way through the crowd when the song ends, after making the gesture for _cigarette_ to his sister. She rolls her eyes and heads back towards the toilets.

He props his leg up, knee bent, and reads emails from his boyfriend, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. His gum has lost all its flavor and he spits it on the ground with the thrill of illegality.

Everything he has done tonight would earn him life in prison in Singapore.

It feels good to break the rules, sometimes.

Eduardo is smoking and checking his Blackberry when he sees Blanca storm out in tears, Bina on her heels.

He decides to stay out of it, it looks like drama. _Girl drama._ He smokes another cigarette and thinks about going in to the bathroom for another line.

Blanca is crying, and then she is shouting, and then she is crying again. He sort of forgot how intense she could be.

Bina comes over and says something about _going home._

Eduardo shrugs, noncommittally.

"If you want," he says.

"She can't be alone," she tells him.

"Do I even want to know?" he asks.

Blanca is now pacing, her heels grating against the pavement, shouting curses into her phone. A small crowd is starting to gather.

"I'll get you a cab," he tells his sister, who protests briefly, but then becomes absorbed in Blanca once more, after she hangs up the phone.

Eduardo is not in the mood to watch any girls cry. He feels good. Blanca is such a fucking drama queen, screaming about _that bastard._

The doorman is helpful. A taxi pulls up for them. He takes the keys, promising to bring the car back. They're going to the Garcia house for Thanksgiving the next day, anyways, so it's no problem, he assures her.

Eduardo is sort of relieved when the taxi pulls away.

And Blanca left him with the baggie, too.

Eduardo tips the doorman a twenty and goes back inside, to find someone else to dance with.

He does some lines by himself, interspersed with drinks, dancing with friends of his sister's, from ages ago. He's known half of them since middle school, and they know way too much about him, his history, his family.

Eduardo finds his jacket and hugs people goodbye and gets in Blanca's gigantic car. He has not driven in years, but the drugs give him a false sense of security.

He doesn't go far. And he makes sure to fasten his seatbelt.

In the rearview mirror, his eyes look bloodshot. Eduardo pulls out a pen and writes _eyedrops_ on his wrist.

Then he goes into another club, in a poorer part of town, where no one is wearing Herve Leger.

It is packed. Wednesday is ladies night, and people are celebrating the holiday early, Latin style.

He has a Red Bull, even though he doesn't need it, and a bottle of Evian, which he does.

His pants are too heavy to dance in, Bina was right.

She texted him, to let him know they got back okay.

There are women dancing in pairs, that is how crowded the club is.

Eduardo dances with many different women.

He has left his jacket on a chair, again, moving from partner to partner.

It is only by the time he is on his third Red Bull (this time with vodka) that she leans over his shoulder, a hand between his shoulder blades, to shout in Spanish at the bartender, who quickly hands her a shot glass full of rum. She shouts her thanks, going up on tiptoes. Wardo can feel her breast brush against his shoulder, and catch a whiff of what smells like frangipani.

He follows her after a moment, back onto the dance floor.

The fabric of her dress is synthetic and cheap, but her hair is cascading and beautiful and she moves with him, effortlessly.

Eduardo does not dance with anyone besides her, though he does not get her name. He pulls her close, and she wraps her leg around him, and he clasps their hands together, and then they pause, and she lets him kiss her.

Then they dance, more, and both do shots, and end up in the bathroom, the floor of which is strewn with toilet paper. The girl in black locks the door behind them.

The condom dispenser is empty, so they do not have sex.

Instead they cut up more lines on the side of the sink, two apiece, one in each nostril, for balance, and then Eduardo rubs the remainder across her gums and kisses her, moving her onto the sink until she is sitting, with her black lace g-string hanging sluttishly around one ankle as he fingers her, and then eats her out.

Then there is banging on the door and she shouts, "Vamos a estar en un minuto!"

They go out to the car, past a line of very angry clubgoers.

In the car she sits in the passenger seat and gives him a blowjob to the sound of early morning radio.

He has more coke but he doesn't want to share.

He offers to drive her home, but she refuses, politely.

Her ass swishes when she walks away, wobbling a little on her heels, back into the club.

Eduardo drives home. Bina is staying with Blanca, so she is not there. He takes his headphones and his cigarettes down to the pool house, where he strips off his clothes. He is hot. His black shirt is soaked through, as are his pants.

And yet despite all the sweat and grime, he feels less dirty than he has in ages when he dives into the pool, wearing just his underwear.

It is only as the dawn gives way to day and he fishes around for his sunglasses that he realizes they were in his jacket pocket, and he has left his jacket on a chair and walked off without it.

He doesn't remember the name of the place, so he can't call, and it's a holiday besides.

Eduardo puts a pillow over his damp head and tries to sleep a little bit. He can feel the humidity making his hair curl up, wet.

His sleep is, shockingly, not too much worse than a regular night. Eduardo has always been blessed with a fast metabolism, so he comes down quickly.

Bina is with his mother in the kitchen. She has brought home sweet rolls from the Garcias and is making coffee for all of them.

Eduardo picks at his bread, tearing out all the doughy bits.

When his sister goes for a third piece his mother says something about _Thanksgiving later_ and Bina throws her roll on the counter and runs out of the room, leaving her coffee behind.

"You didn't have to say that, Mamãe," he says, and goes to find Bina in her room, where she is now crying.

He hates it so much when she cries, and he tries to calm her down, even when she is saying all these horrible things about _gorda_ and he is holding her hands and telling her _não, não, querida, você é linda_ until she nods and stops crying.

It is Thanksgiving and there is nowhere to go, really, because everything is closed, but he takes her to the movie theater, which is good because she can eat popcorn and giggle and he can sit somewhere dark and cool.

They drop by the bar on the way back. He leaves her in the passenger seat reading a magazine, and he runs in to see if his jacket is there.

His jacket has gone missing, but the girl in black is there, counting out the till. There are already a few lone drinkers seated far apart, nursing their first cocktail of the evening.

"¿Su olvidar algo?" she says, tossing her hair over her shoulder as he comes up to the bar. He tells her that he's looking for his jacket, has she seen it? She has not. He asks what she's doing for the holiday and she looks around her as if to say _this, of course._

Will she be here later? Her shift ends at eleven.

Can he see her again?

She has a nice smile, lots of teeth, and she says, "eleven."

On the way back to the house they stop at a CVS so Wardo can get another pair of sunglasses.

They part ways and go to change. Raoul takes their parents, he drives Blanca's Suburban back to her parents' house.

The Garcias still have a very good cook, Rosa.

Blanca's boyfriend is sitting next to her. His name is Frederico, and he went to school at FSU, where he majored in communications.

They call him Freddy, and Eduardo knows that he is an idiot, and that when the women go into the other room and the four of them stay at the table and smoke cigars, that his father is seething with missed opportunities.

By way of Eduardo, who was supposed to go to Gulliver, and then Harvard, and _maybe_ Wharton, and then come back to Miami and marry Blanca Garcia and merge the empires and give his father a grandson.

Wardo fucked _that_ plan up, royally.

Which is probably why his father has to say those snide things about _Mark Zuckerberg_ and _quit his job_ and _graduate school._

Eduardo's father is not now, nor will he ever be, happy with him.

So he lets his father make jokes, at his expense, as a haze of purple smoke envelops their heads and his eyes water.

Eduardo has never, ever, liked to smoke cigars.

He goes out on the back terrace to smoke. He sends Peter an email totally devoid of content. The moon is three-quarters full, and he stares at it, reflected shimmery aqua in the pool.

Blanca comes out for two seconds to steal a drag off his cigarette, tell him once more about her melodramatic version of last night. He nods, but he's not really paying attention. She leaves him with a phone number for later.

He stays out there far too long, confused, angry, sick of the whole thing, already, so quickly. It's not even been two full days, and somehow when he is there, staying under their roof, he is fourteen years old again, wearing his prep school uniform and feeling like a disappointment.

She was supposed to attend Gulliver, her freshman year, but instead they sent her away, to boarding school in Virginia.

They claimed it was _for her health._ It was a lie they all told one another, although she did start to get better, then. Eduardo was glad, even though he felt more alone than he ever had, once she was gone.

Not on holidays, and not during summer vacations, when they would spend the whole day on the beach, on adjacent towels, or by the swimming pool, lying on deck chairs.

She was much thinner in her bikini, then, and they were both tan.

 _They could be twins,_ his mother used to say, _that's how close they are._

He is barely a year older than her, but she has always felt much younger, to him.

In tenth grade he grew very tall, and then other girls started to be interested in him, and things changed, when she was home on breaks. She treated him differently, and he felt lonely, once more.

He felt scared and alone at Harvard, too, those first months.

And then he met a boy, who was a freshman when he was a sophomore, and he wanted to take care of him, the same way he did with her, and in more ways, as well.

And he had friends, different sorts of people than Eduardo would normally associate with, people who had to have federal work-study jobs to pay for their tuition, who didn't fly to Aspen and St Kitts just for the hell of it, who had to scrape together enough cash for a measly eighth of shitty shake from Canada.

But Eduardo _loved it,_ and he loved them. He loved everything about college. The parties where no one knew who he was, and it was okay if he wanted to talk about chess openings, or meteorological patterns, or the finer points of Social Darwinism and their relevance to the Great Depression in American History.

People who wore _sweat pants_ in public, who were funny, and weird, and creative, and who cared, if not about the world then about doing something besides maintaining the status quo and avoiding another heart attack.

He remembers being happy, though always with an undercurrent of guilt, of resentment.

And he tried to take care of everyone except himself, and it fucked him over, in the end.

Facebook ruined everything. _He_ ruined everything. He should have listened, maybe, instead of being blinded by jealousy, instead of trying to make a new paradigm into an old one.

But it was so hard to pay attention, to try and be two people at once.

Bina comes out and puts her head on his shoulder. She has some kind of wrap on. There is a small breeze that flips strands of her hair in front of his face.

He has to leave, soon, for his date.

He kisses the top of Bina's head, asks her if she'll be okay.

"Sim," she says, looking out past the pool.

He calls a car and says his goodbyes.

His father is not around, and his mother has to call him and say, _João, your son is leaving, come say goodbye._

Eduardo squeezes his sister's hand after she walks him to his taxi, and says, "We'll go to the mall tomorrow, okay, querida?" and she hugs him goodbye, and then wraps herself up to go back inside the house, the door lit bright by focused spotlights while the rest of the grounds lie in shadow.

Texts are exchanged as he rides from Coral Gables into downtown.

Blanca's connection comes through.

He is a little early, so he gets a drink. It is very crowded. Nothing like a holiday to induce binge-drinking fueled solely by the need to escape.

She is behind the bar, laughing and flirting. She is wearing black yet again, and loads of eye makeup, but her lips are bare.

Eduardo hates the taste of lipstick.

They go into the bathroom once more, where they drink rum from a flask and he learns that she is named Ines.

She wants to dance, so they do that, her ass grinding against his crotch, the strap of her dress sliding down as she wraps a hand up and back, around his head.

He puts his hands on her hips and she presses into him, rocks up against him. He puts his nose in her hair and works a thigh between her legs, until he is fairly sure more than just sweat is staining his pants.

The doorman hails them a taxi and they go to a hotel, close by.

He pays with cash.

The room smells faintly of mildew, probably coming from the creeping brown water stains on two of the walls.

He turns the overhead lights out and kisses her, in the darkness, before flicking the lamp on.

They kiss on the bed and he rubs his fingers under her skirt until she is clawing at his arms and then he goes down on her, her skin slick with spit, waxed almost totally bare, slippery.

He likes the way she tastes.

He _loves_ the way she shouts at the ceiling.

This time they have condoms, and he puts her on her hands and knees, pulling her hair in his fist as her spine arches.

"Mas duro papi," she pants, and comes once more.

He pulls out and jerks off onto her ass.

They lie in their own sweat and Eduardo smokes. He wants to stay, even though the room is hot and the mattress is uncomfortable, but she says something about needing to leave, so he calls two cabs and pays the driver directly.

He rides back to the house and takes a shower, a cold one, and then goes to lie down in his old room, in his old bed. He is buzzed, drained, thoughtful.

The door creaks open in the dark and a soft voice says "Wardo?" and then she tiptoes into his room.

"Were you waiting up?" he asks, as she lies down next to him, puts her head in the crook of his neck.

"No," she says, sleepily.

She falls asleep so fast that he thinks it may well be true.

On Friday they shop. They decide to avoid the hoi polloi, the queued-up masses waiting for Blu-Ray players and 3D TVs at Best Buy, or Wal-Mart, or wherever it is people are shopping, these days, in America.

They take the Mercedes. Bina wants to drive, which is fine with Eduardo. She drives them to Bal Harbour, chattering about getting _something to wear for tonight._ They leave the car with the valet, go in to Saks. Eduardo purchases an actual pair of sunglasses: Tom Ford, not too flashy, and then they go over to the women's department, where he and Bina blow through the racks and he goes in, with her, to the dressing room.

He sits on a chair outside the actual room itself, of course.

Eduardo worries about proximity, _too much proximity._

She tries on two dozen dresses, some awful, some merely hideous. One is lilac, and she likes it. He has to be tactful, because it looks like prom and he says, "Você deve experimentar o preto," as she disappears behind the curtain.

When she emerges a minute later, Wardo is enlisted to zip the back up.

She walks over to the mirror.

She looks _good._

He swallows, hard, and has to look down at the floor.

"Do you like it, Wardo?" she asks, sweetly, looking at her reflection in the mirror.

He pulls out his new sunglasses, and says, "It's okay, querida, try on that white one, with the ruffles."

Her voice is small when she says, “Eu estou gorda, não estou?”

Then she turns sideways to scope out her backside in the mirror.

"No, no," he says, putting the sunglasses on. "For dancing, Bina."

She goes back in and tries on more stuff.

They get the white one, _thank God._

And then there are shoes and accessories to buy, various bits and bobs to be found, and they hit the Kiehl's counter and stock up. Bina pays, or, more correctly, she charges everything to her store card.

Eduardo knows she doesn't actually make much money. She works for a non-profit.

Eduardo knows that his father has bought her a house, in Georgetown, and that he pays the bill on her credit cards.

Their mother meets Bina for a pedicure -- since she had scrunched up her nose at her nail polish -- and he takes the car to Domino Park and watches old exiles play chess until it is time to meet his family for dinner.

Bina's toenails are red, which is okay, but she is wearing lipstick to match.

Eduardo does not like it when she wears lipstick.

She is wearing the white dress.

Friday is like the nights that went before, but with pills instead of cocaine. There is salsa, and dancing, and having to undo another button on his shirt because it is hot, inside.

That night Eduardo does not drive.

He gets pretty sloppy wasted, bonelessly sagging into some strange girl with huge hoop earrings.

Of course she has a boyfriend, and then there is shouting, and shoving, and yelling, and Eduardo ends up with a fist in his face and a split lip.

Raoul has been circling around, waiting for them to summon him.

Bina gets a towel filled with ice from the bartender and they sit outside on the curb until the car comes for them.

She is concerned, fussing over him, and Eduardo keeps his head back and the ice-filled towel over his mouth until when he licks his lip he no longer tastes fresh blood.

The drive home seems to take forever, but that could just be the aftereffects of the downers.

He takes a shower. He calls Hong Kong, leaves a message. It is twelve hours later, there, three in the afternoon on a Saturday.

Maybe he is playing squash, with some of the board members, or has gone to a bookstore, or out to eat, maybe.

Eduardo is not really the jealous type, if he's _with_ someone, but he doesn't want to know about it.

He closes his eyes and lets the room spin around him, thinking of green and blue and brown eyes.

He is not alone when he wakes up, far too early for a Saturday, still wearing just the bathrobe.

 _Too much proximity,_ he thinks, and goes to take a totally unnecessary shower, the second one in six hours.

Saturday is spent with the family, all four of them.

They eat lunch at the club and then play doubles tennis.

Eduardo tries to talk to his father in the sauna afterward, about his life. Graduate school, maybe, just something different.

It doesn't go very well.

"You think I've worked seven days a week since I was eight years old, Wardo, so that you could worry about whether or not your life has _meaning?"_

And, the thing is, in some ways -- more than just some ways, actually, a lot of ways -- Eduardo knows that is a marker of his extreme privilege, and extraordinary luck, and fortune, by way of birth and genetics and circumstance -- he knows that it is only the confluence of those things, the intersection between axis X and axis Y and axis Z that allows him to even be the _kind of person_ who has the luxury, the immense, insane, ridiculous luxury to imagine that in their life, a tiny thing in the immensity of time, is allowed to hope for _meaning._

Eduardo _gets_ all that.

It makes him feel guilty, guilty that he cares enough to want to matter.

He is silent, chewing on the inside of his lip, and he asks, "Why do you not care what _she does,_ though?"

It is an accusation.

Because he knows, honestly, what he father will say.

 _Because she is a girl, Eduardo._

And he remembers half a lifetime ago being talked to, coldly, and then being hit across his head, _sua irmã é mais homem do que você, seu viado._

His father just snorts and says, in Portuguese.

"Do what you want, Eduardo. You're a rich man, now."

Even sitting in a hundred and ten degrees of dry heat, the scent of cedar pervading the air, Eduardo feels very cold.

Because it should have changed things. He _is_ as a matter of course, a very wealthy man. His portfolio keeps diversifying, he has enough money for a wife, for kids. To help his father, who is older. He is still so gigantic in Eduardo's memory that it is frightening to see him, his shoulders more stooped over, his eyebrows more grey. Eduardo can see the raised scars on his chest from his heart operations.

Keloid scars, they call them.

They run in the family.

He does not have any, but Bina does.

Eduardo gets out of the sauna and takes a shower, and gets dressed in beautiful clothes, and goes to dinner with his parents and his sister, and drinks nice wine, and eats line-caught fish on a terrace cooled by ocean breezes, and the thing is, is that not for a moment, then, does he take any bit of it for granted.

Saturday nights are for driving around, between house parties and pool parties. By the time they get to the third house in their circuit, Eduardo and his sister are both pretty hammered -- a cocktail of Percoset and rum and bumps of coke, which he does every time he goes to the toilet.

By this point in the evening everyone is smoking, even the non-smokers.

He and Bina pass a cigarette back and forth, which she leaves sticky traces of lipgloss on.

It tastes like vanilla, he thinks, as he watches people talk, dance, laugh, hug.

It is a pool party, but only one girl is swimming in the reflecting pool, in a pink bikini. Eduardo wonders if she was paid to do so. Other people are in the hot tub, passing a joint around.

Eduardo does not get in the hot tub, because his sister shrieks and then she goes and gets in the hot tub, stripped down to her underwear -- keloid scars and all, and he knows, very much, that his life is on the brink of becoming _dangerous._

Eduardo does not want to be living a dangerous life.

He shoves his hands deep into his pants pockets and goes into the house.

He's not adverse to risk, in measured tiny spoons, in measured tiny doses.

But never big wins or big losses, not in trading, not in business.

Definitely not in life.

 _Big_ risks, he stays away from.

There are odds, of course, things you can compute mathematically. Models. Ways to predict outcomes.

But some things you just have to _know_ or _sense_ or _feel._

His father would tell him that he _lacked vision._

Vision.

Mark -- _Mark_ had vision.

 _"We don't even know what it is, yet,"_ he had said.

Why he couldn't see it at the time -- the immensity, the utter enormity of what it could be, become?

Why did he lack vision, _then?_

He has seen the landscape of the world change, through this thing.

The way people interact, conduct their lives. Share memories and make things, organize.

Revolutions happen, literal, actual, real-time things, in the world.

And he was so busy, at the time, trying to do things _the right way, the way it says to in the textbooks_ that he lacked foresight.

At the time, he lacked _vision._

But Eduardo has long ceased to be angry about this.

He knows, in his own way, that he is not a visionary.

Here, especially, he is just the son of João and Vitória Saverin.

And the thing is, really, is that he can slip back into all of this, so seamless, so easy, to become and be someone he hasn't really been for a decade, maybe more.

Since he went to Harvard, and tried to prove, in all the wrong ways, that he had _vision._

And perhaps, he thinks -- through a haze of whatever drugs there were that night, and then finding someone else to kiss, and someone else to go into a bathroom with, and someone else to push, up, against a cold bathroom sink, someone else to finger as he bites under her neck, someone else to find a spare bedroom with, making sure to lock the door, someone else to sit, facing away from you, so you can see the base of her spine undulate, to feel the stinging wet slap of her ass against your hips, to slide your hands down the perfect swell of her hips -- perhaps this is what the writers were trying to say, about _going back home._

But the lie masks a truth, which is that when you go home you are always alone.

Because the person you were and the person you are; they never match up, not really.

And your fears stay the same, and you forget any other ways to deal with them, to tamp everything down, to live a life that is dangerous in the only ways you can ever, really, know how to be.

You can _always_ go back home.

All those writers? They tell lies.

Sunday Bina leaves, and Eduardo feels alone, again, though he is slightly relieved that she is gone. Having her around, it makes him feel like a whole person, again, and he knows that it is when the boundaries between people break down that things start to get risky, get dangerous.

But after he lies by the pool and drinks mojitos on the terrace with his mother, he does not go out to a club. He goes back to the park, where he plays chess with old men who smoke cigars while they wait for Castro to die, so that they can go home, finally.

And then he walks around Little Havana and gets coffee, finally, _real_ coffee, and he tries not to think about it, too much, because it feels cheesy, unbecoming, to ruminate.

Because he is so lucky. His _sister_ is so lucky. She can read. She can vote. She can wear what she wants.

And maybe he has spent too long in cities, where global capital is all that really matters.

Eduardo has always seen the backdrop.

He always looked out the window, when they drove past the favelas, which loomed like a threat of rejection, abjection.

The haunting fear of poverty.

These are the things he thinks about, when he drinks his coffee and looks at old men with creased faces who will never again get to see the place where they were born.

He goes back to the house and gets his laptop, which he takes into his sister's bedroom, where he sits, cross-legged with no shoes on and uses the wifi and thinks about things that have changed.

And he is not too old, really, to change them.

Everything is online, everything is easy enough to change.

Five years, almost, to the day that Mark Zuckerberg was served with a lawsuit for an undisclosed sum, he forgives them, all of them.

And that includes himself.

to: ChrisHughes@jumo.com  
from: edsaverin@gmail.com

Subject: 2012 Elections

Chris --

I'm thinking of deferring graduate school and coming back here next year. Is there anything I can do to help? I'm flying out to Hong Kong via the west coast on Tuesday. Any chance of meeting up?

Best,  
Eduardo

He hits send on that, and then he changes his flight, and calls his boyfriend, and leaves a message telling him that he'll be coming back later, than expected.

Tuesday morning he leaves, to head west.

His father is not there to say goodbye, but his mother rides with him to the airport. She looks sad, she misses him, she misses seeing him.

He knows, he knows.

And he says, "I'll see you, Mamãe, it won't be as long as it has been."

This is true, she is getting older, both his parents are getting older.

Time is catching up with all of them.

Being away for so long, he did not expect to find them smaller, more fragile, less frightening, upon his return.

He smokes three cigarettes right in a row before his flight boards, but he leaves the pack and a lighter on the side of a trash can, for someone else.

Peter has emailed him.

Waiting for his flight, Eduardo writes him back. He writes his sister, too, a long email, about what he wants to do, and how he loves her, and he's proud of her.

Then he sets a picture of him and Peter, in Dubai, as his profile picture. He leaves _interested in_ blank. It's still nobody's business but his own.


	6. New York

On the plane he thinks about all of these things.

The flight is much shorter than he is used to, only five hours, because there is no ocean to cross.

And San Francisco still looks tiny -- too delicate, too blue.

Too full of all those dangerous possibilities.

He meets Chris for sushi, and they talk and talk and talk.

About everything -- books they liked reading, and the impact of social networking in Malaysia, and Myanmar, and Egypt, Iran, Syria, Bahrain; the stability of the Euro and the bailout for Portugal; local efforts to repeal DOMA; the role of outreach in getting young Hispanics to vote; the wedding that he's planning to Sean Eldridge, who really wants to meet Eduardo, if they have time, they can maybe go out for a cocktail after this?; and in the midst of all that madness, campaigning for equal rights, and working, rolled up in shirtsleeves, alongside _the goddamned President of the United States._

Chris is a really good person.

He always has been good, sweet, nice.

But like Mark, he has _vision._

And this stuff, the things Chris is doing, Eduardo _gets_ in a way he never understood what the site was about.

Back then he could barely change his relationship status.

He probably would have set it to _It's Complicated._

Because of _In a relationship with Christy Lee_

\--while at the same time being--

 _In love with Mark Zuckerberg_

\--while Mark's status?--

 _Married to Facebook._

But he gets it, now, he sees that _social networking_ changed the world, irrevocably.

The boy he once loved in a laundry-strewn dorm room at Harvard is a grown man now, his face splashed across the cover of Time Magazine, who made something that defined a generation.

Eduardo has never, ever, done anything like that.

He is not a visionary, like Mark, like Chris.

What he is, however, is a good person. He wants to give back, because he is lucky, because he is fortunate, because he can.

Because he is not yet thirty; it is not too late.

Even if he was twice as old as that, it would not be too late.

If you let go.

Risks and chances, all of those things he fears.

What is the worst that can happen?

 _Nothing._

Lunch is good, and they talk and brainstorm, and not once does Chris mention Mark's name, not once does he bring him up, because he knows that friendship is not his to fix.

Eduardo is so grateful, for that.

He is the one who brings it up, obliquely.

"I saw you," he says, poking at the remnants of a seaweed salad, "at the shareholders' meeting, back in the winter."

Chris meets his gaze across the table and nods.

"We saw you, too," he says, softly. "We were hoping you would come say hi."

Eduardo reaches in his pocket for his sunglasses, but he just unfolds them, sticks them on top of his head and says, "I wasn't ready, then."

Chris says, "It's cool," and then launches back into a discussion of the relative merits of Napa versus Sonoma for the reception but then there's the beach, of course, if they do it in the spring it should be okay, outside, not too hot, and has he been to Half-Moon Bay? And they are all of a sudden, again, _talking talking talking_ and Eduardo is five years too late, maybe, but he is here, right now, in California.

The noise and static of what everyone else wants will always be there, of course.

But then he meets Chris' Sean, who has brown hair and a nice smile and who shakes his hand and acts like he already knows Eduardo, and Eduardo can see, reflected in them, and who they are, and what they have, the kind of person he wants to be.

He spends the night in San Francisco. He has a hotel reservation, but ends up staying with them. They have dogs, two stout Corgis named John and Jackie. They drink a lot of wine -- obscure vintages that Sean collects, and smoke medical-grade marijuana outside by a fire pit -- and Eduardo tells them all about Peter, and the different tests he's been taking, and places he wants to go, and stuff he still wants to do, and he's very happy.

He flies to Hong Kong, the next day, and the good feeling follows him back there, because he appreciates everything, now, so much more.

"I missed you," Peter says, after, when Eduardo is curled up around him, arms slung loosely around his neck.

"And you got so _tan,"_ he says, rubbing a gentle hand up and down Eduardo's back.

Eduardo smiles, sleepily, and yawns.

"What can I say," he says, "I like the pool."

Peter laughs and Eduardo falls asleep.

Halfway across the world and he is not, anymore, so very far away.

The next month is both languid and a blur. Now that he's not worrying about schools and test scores, he can spend the day reading on the couch, with trips to yoga classes, and the California Beach Club, where there are tanning beds.

Peter is super into Eduardo being tan, and, of course, doing all of that yoga, which he will practice sometimes opposite the couch, in front of the windows, in a black tank top and matching shorts and when he reaches the top of a sun salutation, he likes to glance over and see that Peter is totally _checking him out._

Eduardo has to admit that this is great, in part because he likes being told that he is gorgeous, in words and in other ways.

And plus there is the fact that Peter is _really,_ frightfully, almost scarily good in bed.

This is why it is nice, being with a man, who appreciates him, and is in no frenzied rush to reach the finish line.

He will come up behind Eduardo in the kitchen, when he goes to get a bottle of water from the fridge, and he will press a hand flush against his neck and mouth at his sweaty shoulders, in front of the open stainless steel fridge door.

Then Eduardo will swish off and go back to his nonstick yoga mat, and ten or twenty minutes will pass before it happens again, and how -- whether Eduardo will come sit on his lap, on the couch, or he will come across the room and press Eduardo flat against the windows, cheek smudging the glass -- it's nice, either way.

Peter is kind of obsessed with Eduardo's ass, and he likes to spread his legs apart and kneel between them and eat him out from underneath.

He says _arse_ in a lust-roughened voice that turns Eduardo on so much, makes his dick pulse wildly in his tight underwear.

His tongue is _wicked_ and Eduardo comes hard, loud. It makes a change from the beginning, when he was so quiet. What makes it different, he will realize, days later, online again, is that he has given Peter a chance to learn him, and that makes a world of difference.

He closes the lid of the laptop and swallows, because he does not want to allow himself to wonder, to project a future that wasn't ever possible.

 _What would it have been like, though?_

Come December he packs up everything in Singapore, books and clothes, a Neiman Marcus box containing a fleece jacket and faded newspaper clippings -- those things make him wonder.

If maybe there had been more of it, more time, not so hurried, a blur of one lousy semester before the summer of _hell_ if it could have happened with him, the chance to know him, learn him.

How it feels with a new lover (or, Jesus, the first time?) and then moving forward a month, a year, ten or more, them figuring out what makes your toes clench up, or what bores you, makes you laugh but not in a good way. The things you'll do for them, and vice versa, even though they don't push your buttons, so to speak.

And yet he knows, too, that the boy he lost his virginity to...how long...six, no... seven, wait, _eight_ years ago -- can it be eight years already? That he is not a boy, any more.

Eduardo cannot help but wonder how he is different, as a man, than he was at nineteen.

He sends packages to the States. The furniture stays in the Singapore apartment, though he later makes arrangements to have it delivered to the girl he used to see every so often.

The keys go to the doorman.

Perhaps it is all the yoga, but Eduardo feels like he weighs a whole lot less.

  
~

Peter is asleep when he gets back, but he is too wired to go to bed right away. He takes a shower and sits at the dining room table. Eduardo goes online, makes arrangements for America, gets back in touch with some people that he might, possibly, try to see.

He uses Facebook for a lot of these things, and he pokes around to see what they are all doing.

Dustin is dating a girl with red hair, like him.

Christy lives in Manhattan.

Chris is changing the world.

Mark?

Mark met the _president._ And by God, he wore a tie, too. A terrible tie, and with _jeans,_ but still.

Right then, instead of being jealous -- even though he is, of course, always going to be deeply, wildly, vindictively jealous of Mark, for being so smart it made his head spin, for seeing the world not in terms of ad buys and demographics, but connections of a kind no one else understood-- instead of that, he thinks, _fuck it, what's the worst that could happen?_ and he leaves a comment on the picture from April.

It takes ages, of course, to figure out the right combination of words that don't sound accusatory, or flippant, or hateful. He wants to keep it light. It's been too long, too much, for it to be anything but that.

 _Impressive! Wonder if this unprecedented tie will also make an appearance at the next shareholders meeting?_

The last few weeks he spends with Peter make him feel just as good, however, as finally posing that comment, which one day later has earned another _Liked by Mark Zuckerberg_ and was also _liked by Dustin Moskovitz, Chris Hughes, Sean Eldridge, and 14 others._

Because he is leaving, and they won't see one another for at least a month, he pesters Peter to set up a Facebook page, which he does, begrudgingly, using Eduardo's laptop at the dining room table.

"No, you have to put a picture up," he says, leaning over his shoulder to peer at the screen. There is just the outline of a face and the barest minimum of information, written in stark blue on white. His year of birth is not visible.

"Eduardo, I don't want my face all over the internet."

"It's not _all over."_

"Don't you care at all about your privacy?" Peter says, all droll English amusement and Eduardo leans a little closer, pulse quickening.

"My what?" he says, coyly, and Peter says it again, against Eduardo's cheek, and then puts him on the table, stands between his legs and kisses him, the laptop long forgotten.

They make out like this, Eduardo's legs hitched around Peter's waist, until Eduardo breaks away and says, breathy, "If you don't put a picture up, how will anyone believe that you exist? They'll think I made you up."

"Cheeky," Peter says, shifting him further back on the table.

"Am I in trouble?" Eduardo says, wiggling his hips.

"Quite possibly," he says, rasping his nails along Eduardo's waist.

In the end, after, though, he does put up a picture of the two of them -- which is taken by Peter's brother-in-law over Christmas in Scotland, again, where they are sitting on the couch and both wearing sweaters, Peter's hand on Eduardo's knee, a dog passing through the frame, an empty wineglass on the table in front of them.

Eduardo likes this picture, and contemplates setting it as his desktop background, but then decides that doing so is perhaps little on the cheesy side, given that he is almost thirty and going to be raising voter awareness all across the US until the election in November.

He and Peter talk, and plan trips they will take, and locales in which to meet up, and when they will Skype and text and yes, even put things up on Facebook.

They take the Eurostar to Paris for New Year's.

It is chilly and grey in Paris.

The food is good, and the wine is even better, and Eduardo buys a pack of Galoises, which they smoke, standing on a street corner in the Fourteenth. They make out against a wall when it turns midnight, and they hold hands when they walk back to their hotel, breath cold in the air.

Eduardo has a hangover the next day and sleeps late. He watches Peter get dressed and it is still wildly sexy, but it makes him feel sad.

The rhythm they have is good. It is not hot like samba, not quick like salsa. Eduardo is still unsure of whether or not he is in love, because he does not know if love is supposed to burn your blood hot like molten glass or not.

About this, Eduardo is still unsure.

But he does love him, he cares about him, and he watches him get dressed, all grey-blond hair and dove-grey suit, watching from the bed with his head on his upper arm, watching, thinking.

"I'll miss you," he says, watching Peter tie his tie.

He grins and comes over to drop a kiss on Eduardo's upturned mouth.

"You too," he says. "Good luck with everything."

Perhaps he doesn't understand, still, what or why Eduardo needs to do what he's doing, but he's not argumentative, not confrontational. What Peter is, really, is an adult. He's not _difficult,_ doesn't need to be appeased, and thank Christ, he certainly doesn't need to be _taken care of._

That is all nice, as is the talking, which they have done a bit of, the last few months. Certainly not _everything_ has been disclosed -- none of the heavy, well, weirdness that he carries and doesn't share with anyone -- but things about his parents, how they're getting older, and how that scares him.

Peter has been through all of this already, and he makes Eduardo feel better, in his own way, telling him about losing his own father to cancer and how, yeah, it really did shake him, badly.

He is remembering those times, those conversations, when he is doing all his watching, all his thinking.

"Thanks," Eduardo says, and then, after a moment of hesitation, "Love you."

Peter slides on his suit jacket, comes to kiss Eduardo again.

"Love you, too."

They kiss goodbye, and then Eduardo goes back to sleep for a couple of hours, because his flight to New York is not until the evening, the red-eye.

Arriving at JFK from LHR he is less exhausted than expected.

It has only been a month and a half, but it feels much better.

Though he will have to be spending a lot of time in Florida.

Luckily, Chris _pushes_ him, and he doesn't have time to fuck around, or be all melancholy.

There is an urgency to things, to drive registration before the primaries, and Eduardo is busy, busy, busy.

They set him up in a place in Soho, which is nice, near the offices, and he spends a week getting up to speed -- with Chris, who, he forgot, expects everyone there, every night, until ten p.m. when things are happening, and if Chris can simultaneously plan a wedding and orchestrate an online election campaign from bases in San Francisco and Soho, then surely Eduardo could stay and make follow-up calls, right?

And he is worn out, not sleeping enough because he is getting up at the crack of dawn to do yoga before catching a flight to a swing state.

He flies all over, he puts in time on the ground with idealistic college kids, who remind him of how he once was, and who make him feel proud, not ashamed.

And he knows, too, when they have meetings and brainstorm sessions, that his ideas are taken seriously, and that's a really great feeling.

It's a lot better than pushing numbers around all day.

He speaks three languages fluently, and he's becoming adept at talking to strangers outside hardware stores, and knowing enough to be trustworthy.

And he is comfortable around people with money, the kind of people that will open their checkbooks for the right reasons, to the right person, and Eduardo has never been a super smooth talker, but somehow, he manages to make an impression.

He meets the mayor of Chicago, which is pretty cool.

He sees his sister a couple of times, en route, and that's fine, for the most part.

He stays in a hotel, though, by the airport, not with her.

It's still a bit scary. It's always going to be weird.

His relationship happens over the phone and the internet.

He does not have time to cheat, but, as before, there is an understanding that sometimes, things just _happen._

Eduardo is criss-crossing the United States so much that when he lands in SFO to meet his boyfriend for a long weekend in March, only when he is being driven to a hotel downtown, only then does he remember that there's a meeting, after, he's supposed to attend.

~

There is one night in San Fransisco -- which is spent really just in the hotel bed, and then once on the hotel floor, and then before they check out, in the hotel shower.

They have rented a car to drive to the French Laundry, which they are both excited about. Peter's driving makes Eduardo nervous, however, and he peers through his fingers when they go around sharp corners.

"You're veering! Be careful!"

"Eduardo I am perfectly capable of driving on the right."

"We're going to die, aren't we?"

And Peter will roll his eyes like a guy half his age.

They make it there intact, their private rental adjacent to a vineyard with a giant redwood hot tub, which is great at night.

They drink a bunch of good wine in that hot tub, and have a lot of good sex in that hot tub.

Thomas Keller is a culinary genius.

Vacation is really nice.

It is a good visit. They kiss goodbye at the airport, and they full-on make out, because it's San Fransisco, not Singapore.

Eduardo puts on his sunglasses for the drive to Palo Alto. He is relieved to be the one driving, though he has to stop twice for coffee, which gives him courage even though his hands are shaking.

~

It is a generic conference center hotel thing.

After Asia, Eduardo is not very impressed with American modern buildings.

It does have a pool, however, which he goes to right after he checks in.

His swim is cursory, more an excuse to use the sauna than anything.

Eduardo sits and sweats, imagining that he can smell Chardonnay and Muscat seeping out of his pores.

He goes back to his room and sends emails to people, follow-ups.

And he gets on Facebook.

 _The tie will be there. Will you?_

He doesn't sleep so great, though, knowing that everyone else is either in the same damn hotel, or living in their McMansions or whatever within a ten mile radius.

The weather in the Bay Area is misty, but the peninsula and Silicon Valley are warm. Eduardo opens the window and rolls things over in his mind.

It's like a list of people he doesn't exactly relish seeing: Parker, Thiel, Zuckerberg. The first he still wants to punch in the face; the second is just a publicity headshot, since they've never met. The third one, though?

He thinks about how the meeting will go, if they will casually lock eyes over the cheese danish or whatever and who will say what and what he's going to wear and if he should smile and if Mark will smile back and it's all just _a lot_ to keep inside his head.

Sleep is a long time coming that night, and he wakes up much earlier than he should, since there's only a hallway to travel down.

He orders coffee to the room and does a twenty minute vinyasa sequence until it arrives, and he drinks it, scrolling around on the internet, maybe snooping a little bit.

Eduardo doesn't really have any idea how this is supposed to work.

In part because there is a lot of information that he knows, about Mark and what he's been doing the last year or so, since Facebook came into his life.

And is that weird, to know these personal things about Mark -- that he's playing shortstop on the office softball team, or appeared on live television, or that his last vacation was with a group to visit the archaeological ruins of Greece and Asia Minor -- to know those things, but to have not exchanged two words with him directly in years?

You can't just drop that stuff into conversation, can you? It sounds crazy, stalker-ish.

Eduardo still doesn't completely understand Facebook and privacy, because he likes having parts of his life that aren't just open, aren't _out there._

He has like two hours, still, before the a.m. session, and he cannot sit in the hotel room and do yogic breathing for that long, so he changes into his trunks, heads for the pool.

Like before, the laps are cursory. There are a few other people there, the early-morning crowd, who fit in a full workout before eight o'clock.

Eduardo goes back and forth between the sauna and the steam room until he is dizzy, lightheaded, trying to purge the anxiety through his skin.

He is walking over to get his stuff from a chair, running through the possible scenarios, things to say, in his head, and of course, not only is he so caught up in that, talking under his breath to his wet feet, that he doesn't even notice bumping into someone who has just climbed out of the pool.

"Hey, watch -- "

 _He knows that voice._

"Wa-- Eduardo?"

 _Oh good lord._

"Oh. It's you."

Mark smiles and wipes water off his chin.

"Indeed it is."

The whole script -- the prepared not-all-that funny quips about Mark's tie, the studied avoidance of being alone, together, hence the need for a room full of people so no one would lose their shit (not that it helped, actually, the last time) -- it all dissipates.

Because seeing Mark, when he sees Mark, who has been...swimming? And is like, wet, his hair plastered down on the sides of his head, dripping onto the deck, barefoot, and _Jesus has he been working out?_ and smirking, of course, like he does, but looking so vulnerable too, like a soaking wet beagle puppy or something and seriously -- swimming? Swimming.

"Swimming?" he says, stupidly.

"Try to," Mark answers, absent-mindedly towelling his hair with one hand, and Eduardo's eyes are trying not to go everywhere, because, okay, he had decided to come here, and maybe say _hello_ and, shake hands or maybe, _maybe_ get coffee, or, at the absolute most, a drink, certainly _not dinner_ although he is so fucking sick of eating takeout pizza, which has lost its charm very quickly, so if they decided to have a drink in a restaurant that also happened to serve food, that would be _fine,_ wouldn't it?

"Are you cold?" Mark says, because Eduardo is shivering like he is back in that cold house in Scotland.

"Just got out of the sauna," he creaks out, like an _idiot._

"Cool," says Mark, putting his towel over his shoulders, like a cape. "I should do that, too. See you in an hour or so?"

Eduardo manages to say, "Yeah, totally," despite most of his attention being elsewhere, like on the way Mark's hair looks, as it starts to go from wet to dry, and how he would like to touch it, like some kind of crazy person.

He feels creepy, all of a sudden, looking at Mark's hair like that, and he shakes himself out of his reverie and says, "See you, then, Mark."

"Bye, Eduardo," Mark says, and then, more quietly, "We're all really glad you're here."

Eduardo bites his lip and is about to respond when he adds, _"I'm_ glad, especially."

He does not know how to respond to that, so he grabs his stuff silently and stalks off towards the elevators. Through the glass he can see Mark tie his towel around his waist and head for the sauna, and he punches the _door close_ button five times with a stabbing motion, but it takes _forever_ to actually shut.

He goes back to the room and sits on the bed, maybe, possibly, freaking out just a bit. He showers and breathes in steam through his nose, and then he lies naked on the bed and calls his boyfriend, who is raspy-voiced with sleep a thousand miles to the west, a full day in the future.

They don't talk for long, Peter has work the next day, a squash game planned with a friend.

Eduardo hangs up, gets dressed, and goes back downstairs, waiting until the last possible moment to leave.

This is unlike him, as he is usually extremely punctual.

He slips into his seat just as Chris is approaching the podium, and he mostly pays attention to the stuff he has to say.

And then there are numbers people, ad people, marketing people, a bunch of stuff about user information and profiles, the cost of bundling and selling metrics -- which is definitely a step up from banner ads, but is really, on a deep level, exceedingly _creepy_ \-- and invasive on a level Eduardo still shudders to contemplate.

Perhaps even more frightening is the fact that people know all this, and still do it anyways.

That is, quite possibly, the most frightening thing of all.

There are breaks, for coffee, toilet breaks. He catches glimpses of Mark, being steered through clumps of people, shaking hands, either Chris or his older sister at his elbow. This is funny to him, perhaps because it is no longer his problem, Mark's stubborn recalcitrance.

 _Not his problem?_

That's pretty damn liberating: that he could be even on the same continent as Mark and not to feel like, on a fundamental level, that Mark would always be his problem (his only problem, he once thought), now he just feels relief, and lets out a random laugh.

Eduardo watches Mark.

He looks bored, maybe?

He has, as promised, put on the tie, which looks like a relic from a 1970s cop show.

 _Forget public relations_ he thinks, _who lets him pick out his own clothes?_

Mark definitely looks bored.

Eduardo is actually pretty bored himself. It's ultimately just another room crammed with people too wealthy to know what to do with themselves. And meetings are so unbelievably dull.

A secret of adulthood is that no one is actually doing anything. Not up here.

So dull.

Excruciating.

And meetings give you all this time to think, because one can only reread the program or the informational packet so many times, only take so many bathroom breaks, or sneakily send texts every so often.

Eduardo spends the whole meeting thinking, drifting, reminiscing.

Sean is there he can see him. Something about his face; Eduardo still just wants to deck him, all these years later. He talks to a lot of different people, moving around the room, circulating.

Chris comes and says hi, and during the break for lunch Dustin shouts his name from three tables over and practically _bounces_ across the room to talk to him.

He has the best smile Eduardo has ever seen, and with him, too, like Chris, it's easy to fall back into old rhythms, comfortable, easy.

Dustin is talking a mile a minute to Eduardo about _his plans and the stuff you're working on for Chris and are you gonna come to this party Sean has planned for later later, it would be awesome I want you to meet Clare this girl I'm with and how long is he staying and what's China like and will he be there next year because they are thinking of going to Thailand maybe or Vietnam or Japan_ and Eduardo can barely keep up, and then Dustin has to run off, winded, to take his place on the podium and says a lot of technical stuff that Eduardo does not understand three words of.

No doubt nine-tenths of the people in that room do not understand what he means; they know only that it will make them even richer. And that whatever it is he's talking about, he _cares_ about it. He infects the whole room with enthusiasm, including Eduardo.

The second half of the day passes like the first.

Mark gives a talk, about the future of Facebook.

He believes that privacy is a relic of another age.

Eduardo is a major stakeholder, but he fundamentally disagrees with this opinion. Even with the people you share your life with, he has often thought, you're under no obligation to share absolutely _everything_ with them.

Everyone is entitled to their privacy.

No one is obligated to share everything, spill and tell everything.

Especially if they don't want to.

Especially not then.

The afternoon session ends with a standing ovation, the announcement of a record profit margin, and a chant of _domination!_ that definitely gives Eduardo the creeps.

It may not be the old boys' club way of doing things -- but Eduardo is not sure if it is better.

He still resents, more than any of it, that Mark proved his father right.

Going into business with your friends is a bad idea -- if you're lucky you just lose some money. Not your friends, your lover, your whole identity -- not all at the same time.

This is, once again, why Eduardo was never going to succeed in business.

He's not angry with Mark, so much, any more, he is realizing.

Of course, he still wants to punch Sean in the face.

He sends Peter a text to this effect.

 _Fuck him, he's a tosser,_ comes the reply, a minute later.

He is writing back when Chris and Dustin come over, together, to ask if he will come to this party, later on, and even though he's not really in the mood -- the whole day has made him tired from boredom, for one, and he has a tentative date for phone sex planned -- he also, kind of, feels ten years younger, and like he could, maybe, go to a party with these people, who are, somehow, still very much a part of him.

There is the friend that you baby, that you go to for laughter.

There is the one who pushes you, on every single issue, opinion, idea, belief.

There is the one that you love, more and differently than just a friend, even if it is always going to be a bad idea.

He was never great at being friends, with Mark. Loving Mark was painful, time-consuming, all-encompassing.

Eduardo loved Mark so much that there was no space for him left over.

But he is getting ahead of himself, his brain is still going a million miles a second when Mark extricates himself yet another clump of people, shuffles over in that strange way he has, like he's got a ruler stapled to his shoulders, and he walks over and says, "Eduardo?" like he already knows what the conversation was about.

He takes a second and inhales, thinking.

That he doesn't want to be drunk around Mark, or see Sean, or party in San Francisco, which is probably like Miami but even _more gay_ \-- but those are just excuses, like running to Asia was an excuse, like all the overcomplications caused by feeling too much, too deep, and it's too hard to try and control all that.

 _It's just a party._

"On one condition," he says, looking Mark in the eye.

The three of them are silent, perhaps expecting a long overdue confrontation, but Eduardo just drops his gaze down Mark's chest and says, "Take that fucking thing off, for the love of God. You look like a driving instructor."

Dustin doubles over laughing, and does not stop until long after Mark has removed his tie and put it in his jeans pocket, where it remains for the rest of the night.

What ends up happening is that there is a party, an "official" Facebook party, that they all attend.

There are passed trays of chicken satay, and mini sliders, and whiskey sours, champagne, craft beer.

In his mind, this is _not_ what the million member party was like.

It's, to be honest, kind of lame.

Eduardo is not impressed, and he silently gloats in Sean's direction.

They don't speak to one another. Eduardo decides it is best to stay away from him, lest he totally lose his self-control.

Sean's mere presence is like an irritant to him.

However, Sean, also, has not aged very well.

He has lame hipster glasses, and even lamer hipster stubble. Not to mention that he's all puffy.

 _Coke bloat,_ Eduardo thinks. He's seen it dozens of times, on the girls back home, whose faces get full trying to hold on to whatever hydration they can.

Eduardo is not a vain person, exactly, but knowing that he looks good and Sean looks rather...less good -- it makes him smile, secretly, to himself and grab a third glass of champagne from a passing waiter.

Eduardo has not eaten very much, all day. He has been lightheaded since the sauna -- probably dehydration, he figures, though he does not get water or juice or whatever, to get more hydrated, not right away.

He is kind of stressed out, by the whole situation. The room is too bright, and though he is good, now, and knows how to work a room, he feels less sure-footed than he has come to be, over the last few months.

The tension makes his fingers itch, it makes him crave a cigarette.

Not a lot of people smoke, anymore, in California. Everyone is so health-conscious. Not like London, or Miami, or Hong Kong, or New York.

There is only one man, who is older.

He was also on the podium, earlier that day.

Eduardo knows that this is Peter Thiel, whose face he also studied, though less than Sean's, and decidedly less than Mark's.

Thiel gives him a cigarette, when he asks for it, and he lights it for him, as well, cupping his hand around Eduardo's to shield the flame.

They smoke in silence. Eduardo wonders if Thiel knows who he is, and checks him out, surreptitiously, out of the corner of his eye.

Eduardo contemplates, for all of two seconds, trying to seduce him.

He looks like he'd be mean in all the right ways.

Eduardo has always had this problem, of being dangerously attracted to _assholes._

Older or younger than him.

Who knows what that's about.

He doesn't, though, try to fuck the man who fucked him over, five years ago.

Eduardo does not bring it up, and he does not stand close to the other man while they smoke. He walks a few feet away and starts Blackberrying, which he does until Thiel goes back into the party.

He has left the half-empty cigarette pack on a ceramic planter, and Eduardo picks it up, shoves it in his pocket.

Going back in he is assaulted by Dustin, who wants him to meet his girlfriend.

She is _darling,_ with amazing skin and a great rural punk girl vibe, and it only takes a couple of minutes for Eduardo to see why Dustin looks at her like that. They talk, the three of them, Eduardo slurring his words just slightly. Then Clare says, "Can we please get out of here now?" and Dustin says, "You ready?" and Eduardo asks, "For what?" and Dustin answers, "Sean's party, of course."

Eduardo's stomach drops.

It stays in his knees the whole ride there, to a club that is a million times hipper, where everyone is gorgeous, just like Eduardo, and then he feels less special.

Two drinks later he remembers why he hated Sean so much.

Just, the _spectacle_ of it all.

How did he even _do that?_ How does he still?

It's so easy to be impressed, but Eduardo is not impressed.

Maybe five years ago, he would have been impressed.

None of this means _anything,_ is what he realizes, in a moment of stupid drunken clarity.

So, right then he realizes that he's at this other party, an over-exaggerated ear-splitting mix of Studio 54 and Blade Runner, and he's bone-deep exhausted, and far too drunk, and starving, and suddenly _very_ jet lagged.

He's seen friends, and that's great. It's better than great, actually, because he waited, because he was ready.

But fuck, he's _tired._

He wants to leave, go to his room, lie in his underwear and just call home, call someone who feels more like home than this does.

Chris and his Sean are hammered, dancing. He tells them he's gonna leave and they wave goodbye, arms around one another.

He is looking around for everyone else to say goodbye to, as well, when Mark intercepts him, and he has to stand on tiptoes to shout, into Eduardo's ear over the throb of the bass, "Do you want to get out of here?" and Eduardo thinks he might pass out from dehydration, exhaustion, or heat exposure, or something.

 _Proximity._

Maybe he's suffering from one of those things, maybe that's it.

Maybe that is what makes him lose his balance, sway forward, and Mark catches him by the elbows, holds him upright.

"Just give me a sec," he shouts, into Eduardo's ear, and Eduardo swallows, dumbly, as Mark walks away.

He doesn't even remember saying _yes_ or _no,_ just falling.

 _Fuck._

Even though he is drunk, or dizzy, or dehydrated or whatever, his brain is leapfrogging through scenarios and possibilities like -- where are they going to go? Are they talking about stuff? Is this like a prelude to hooking up? Does Eduardo even want that? Why does he suddenly feel so unsure of himself, again? Is it cheating if something happens? Why is he even thinking about something happening?

Eduardo knows, however, from looking, that Mark's relationship status is still _single._

He silently curses himself for spending all that time online.

Eduardo thinks about faking a migraine, or pretending that he has suddenly coming down with food poisoning.

He has never had a panic attack, though his sister has.

 _Why is Mark making him panic like this?_

It feels like coming down from bad coke, too jittery to sit still, staring queasily at the heaping plates of breakfast being delivered to other tables, drinking black coffee and waiting, just waiting, anxious and exhausted.

Eduardo is tapping his foot nervously, and then he remembers that he still has the pack of cigarettes that Thiel left behind, and which he meant to give back.

Thiel is ensconced at a table with Sean Parker and a bunch of hangers-on of both genders, all of whom appear to be barely in their twenties.

Though it is dark, and no one can see, Eduardo sticks his tongue out at their table, and then he finds the front door so he can go smoke.

California laws won't allow smokers to congregate, so he paces up and down the sidewalk, trying to decided whether to get a cab, or not, to pretend to be sick, or not, and how he should act, what he should say, and he is mouthing the words to himself about _in a committed relationship_ and _still not ready to be friends, I'm sorry_ as he is chewing on the dense skin around his thumb he sees that Mark is coming back toward him, one hand in his pocket, the other wrapped around the neck of a bottle of champagne.

He comes over to Eduardo and says, "Are you smoking now?"

"Just when I drink," he says. _And when I get nervous._

Mark inhales through his nose.

"It stinks in there," he says, and then studies the label of the champagne bottle.

"Yeah," Eduardo says.

They aren't even talking about anything that matters, which actually makes him feel more calm. Mark isn't the most forthcoming person, really, nor is he prone to smiling for no reason.

"Ma-ark," shouts a female voice, from further down the sidewalk.

Clare and Randi come over to them, with more champagne bottles.

"Dustin's bringing the car," Clare says, eying Eduardo's cigarette with the lusty disdain of an ex-smoker.

"Cool," Mark says. "Shotgun."

"You don't get shotgun in my car, dumbass," she says, punching him on the shoulder, playfully. Randi laughs loudly.

Dustin pulls up in a blue Prius, opening the door from the inside.

Randi and Mark are bickering about who is going to _ride bitch_ and Dustin says _get in, fools_ and then all five of them are squeezed into the car, Mark's leg mere inches from his own, and the four of them are talking about _where to go_ and _what to do_ and Randi and Dustin are having a conversation about East Bay punk and he hears Clare ask Mark if he has maple syrup at his house and then he realizes that they are _all hanging out,_ just that, nothing more, and he leans his head forward into his palm because he is smiling with relief, although when he finally sits back up, as they are pulling up in front of a giant beige house that looks identical to all the other giant beige houses on the street, his mouth is turned up, but his eyes are wet.

They all traipse inside, where Dustin sets about trying to light a fire in the giant fireplace and Randi drags him out to the back yard to pick oranges for juice.

It reminds him of his parents' house, what with the giant outdoor pool and the citrus trees, though it is much less ornate. There is hardly any landscaping to speak of, however, and there is a giant chicken coop in one corner of the yard.

Randi rolls her eyes when he mentions it.

"Don't even get him started," she says.

Then the five of them are in the kitchen, bickering over what music to put on and from whose iPod, and Eduardo and Dustin make orange juice while Clare and Mark poke at one another over the stove and Randi says something about _getting actual plates_ because Mark has many mismatched forks but no plates other than Chinet, and the only napkins are torn strips of paper towel.

They drink mimosas and eat matzoh brei with maple syrup.

Clare is from Vermont, she insists that he try it, and while Eduardo is initially unsure about this, he later agrees that it is _genius._

He is pulling out his Blackberry to make a note to bring back maple syrup and matzohs to Hong Kong when he realizes that he missed his phone date.

He goes into the kitchen by himself, to get a glass of water -- for the dehydration, of course -- and to call Peter, who does not answer.

He leaves a message and then goes back into the living room, but not before smoking a cigarette out back, by the pool.

The fire dies down as they play _Risk_ and then Randi yawns and goes upstairs to sleep.

Clare is sitting between Dustin's legs with her eyes closed, and he kisses the top of her head and asks, quietly, "You wanna go home, babe?"

Eduardo can see the inquisitive look she shoots Mark, who shrugs at her. She raises one eyebrow.

After a moment of silence she stands up, dusting off her knees and says, "Yeah, I want to brush my teeth really badly, they're all gritty."

"'Kay," Dustin says, also getting to his feet. Eduardo starts to stand up and Dustin says, "No worries, no worries, we'll see you tomorrow, right?" and then they make their way to the front door with Mark, who is mentioning something about _brunch tomorrow_ and then the door clicks behind them and Eduardo is all alone with Mark, in front of a dying fire with dancing shadows on the bare standard issue off-white walls.

Mark goes into the kitchen, comes back with two bottles of water. He hands one to Eduardo and asks, "Do you want to watch something?"

"Sure," he says, "whatever's fine," because he doesn't give a shit what they watch, even though Mark does have a giant fucking television and some ridiculous surround sound system.

Mark puts in something stupid, with bland blonde women and forgettably handsome men shooting guns, lots of things blowing up, and he puts his socked feet onto the coffee table, which is still littered with board game pieces and a roll of paper towels, and starts eating something gummy from a bulk bag.

He offers Eduardo the baggie, which he peers into suspiciously.

"What are those?"

"Unsulfured pineapple slices," he says, "from the Whole Foods."

Eduardo must look so shocked that Mark laughs, outright.

"Chris lost his shit about corn syrup two months back," he says, shaking his head. "He ordered all this in bulk to the office. It's not bad."

Then they watch some more of the movie.

Eduardo eats one of the pineapple pieces, cautiously.

There are long silences, which Eduardo likes very much.

Other people always thought Mark was rude, because his eyes were always focused on something else, his brain was maybe doing something else entirely.

But for some reason, who knows why, that made him so much easier to talk to.

He would sit on Mark's bed, or next to him, sometimes, on the couch, while he did six other things at once, and when they were just _there_ with no pressure, no demands, then Eduardo found it really easy to say things he wouldn't ever say to anyone else, ever.

Almost every _heavy weird thing_ in Eduardo's life, Mark knows about.

It is very simple to fall back into that pattern, over the course of this single day that has lasted longer than the last five years.

Just like the in film there are long pauses where nothing happens and then a staccato burst of semiautomatic rifle fire.

"They seem really good," he says, "Dustin and Clare," he adds, to clarify.

"Yeah," Mark nods, not taking his eyes off the television. "They are. Dustin keeps proposing to her, actually. He really wants to have like, six kids."

"Seriously?" Eduardo asks. It is somehow still hard to think of Dustin as an adult, harder still to think of him as a _father._ Mark says, "Yeah, he wants to ensure the survival of redheads," and smiles, like it's a private joke between the three of them.

"But she won't marry him?" he asks, curiously.

"Not until Chris and Sean can, like for real, is what she says."

Eduardo lets that sink in. Mark offers him the bag, but he shakes his head _no._

More things happen on screen. Eduardo is not really paying very much attention to what is going on up there.

He is thinking about the twelve inches separating his leg from Mark's leg. More explosions happen on screen, and then there is a car case.

He thinks about fathers.

"I saw him," he says, knowing Mark will know who he means, "over Thanksgiving."

Mark nods, tightly.

"Are you okay?" he says, quietly, which is a bigger question.

"Yeah," Eduardo says, and he means it, more or less.

There is a plot twist and a kind of explicit sex scene, which doesn't exactly turn Eduardo _on,_ exactly -- in part because he knows, from experience, that women require more attention than _that._

So a couple of (probably faked) orgasms later, Eduardo is thinking about sex.

He is next to Mark and he is thinking about sex.

He has been drinking, and he is alone with Mark in Silicon Valley in Mark's _house,_ for God's sake.

Mark is watching the television, tapping his heel against the table every so often, and Eduardo moves himself closer and while Mark looks at the screen he looks more closely at Mark's hair and the side of his face, in profile.

Eduardo is very dizzy, and he knows that it has nothing to do with drinking or dehydration or any of that bullshit, it is the closeness, the bump of blood in his ears, and this _pull_ that isn't like want at all.

It is much more sinister than want.

Eduardo wants so very hard to be a rational person, more than anything he wants to be the kind of man who makes reasoned, sure decisions, who never sees gray areas, who never feels so much need, so much as he feels right at this very moment.

There is just one matted tendril of Mark's hair sticking up from where he is resting his head on the couch, and if Eduardo is barely conscious of reaching over to touch it, then he is utterly unaware of pushing himself over, his leg on Mark's, his mouth on Mark's, to the distant sounds of the third car chase in a two hour movie.

It is certainly not intentional that he is pressing his lips to Mark's own and putting his hands on either side of his face.

His breathing is ragged, and it is not from smoking.

He wants Mark _so much_ that it is frightening.

It is the feeling like he could only find before when someone hurt him.

It is excruciating and it is exquisite. Being near Mark is so wonderfully painful -- like being slowly crushed to death under the weight of the Elgin marbles, toppling from a top-heavy helicopter into the pit of Kilauea -- it sucks all the air from his lungs and fills him with helium, all at the same time, and it makes him not think, it makes his brain not tick like a time bomb, makes the pendulum stop swinging from _guilt_ to _anger_ to _shame_ to _fear_ and back again, endlessly.

"Mark," he breathes out, and then he is kissing Mark with a ferocity he didn't know he had in him.

Mark, kisses him back, but he pulls away, pressing his forehead against Wardo's and shakes his head from side to side.

"This is a bad idea," he says, pulling Eduardo's hands from his face and moving them down to his sides.

Eduardo protests by kissing him again, pushing himself up against him, and he lets himself sink his hands into Mark's hair and pin him to the back of the couch.

He can feel Mark through his jeans, and Mark keeps kissing him, shallowly, and saying, between kisses, "C'mon, stop, don't. Not like this."

Wardo whimpers when Mark unhooks his arms from his neck and pushes himself away, toward the arm of the couch. The room is almost completely dark, lit only by the reflected light from the kitchen and a few dying embers.

"You're with someone," he says.

Eduardo really doesn't care about that, and he tries to tell Mark this, with more hands and more tongue, more words.

"Stop, stop, stop," Mark whispers, holding Eduardo's hands between his own. He takes a breath in then says, sad and flat, "I want you to be happy, Eduardo. You deserve to be happy."

And at this Eduardo wants to scream _I don't want to be happy, you asshole, I want you,_ and he can see, even as he is thinking this, that Mark is, oddly and maturely right, but he doesn't _care,_ is the thing.

 _Happy_ feels so bland.

Happy does not _hurt._

And Eduardo is a sick little fucker who _really likes_ to get hurt.

Mark may not have been experienced, physically, but _goddamn,_ did he hurt Eduardo better than anyone ever has, since then.

But Mark has pushed himself away, folded his arms in front of him, and even in the dim light, Eduardo knows that set of his jaw, that tiny twitch of the side of his face. It means that nothing he can do from here on out will convince Mark otherwise.

He sighs, forlorn, and sits back heavily against the couch.

"I should call a cab, huh?" he says.

"No, stay, it's fine."

Eduardo falls asleep, eventually.

When he wakes up, eyes smarting from the sunshine streaming in, too bright even indoors, to the shrill ring of his phone, he sees that Mark has fallen asleep in an adjacent armchair, seated upright.

He goes out back to smoke and talk. And then he lies back down on the couch until Mark wakes up, too, later.

Eduardo's head is pounding as he watches Mark wake up. His neck is _killing him._ Now would be the time when he would take a hot shower, do yoga, down some espressos, and head out into the field, or the street, or the food bank, the hardware store.

Instead he is sitting in Mark's living room, on a well-worn beige couch -- which, though comfortable, he did not sleep well on.

He dreamed that his car crashed en route to Watsonville, where they grow strawberries in pesticide-laden fields.

Eduardo is in a foul mood. He has a champagne hangover, the best drunk and the worst hangover, Mark has _no coffee,_ and he flung himself at him last night, or more correctly speaking, early this morning, like some kind of horny college student.

Eduardo is in a foul mood because being around Mark turns him right back into that horny, desperate, senseless college student once more.

From the chair across the room, Mark yawns.

"Morning," he says.

"Hey," Eduardo answers, tightly.

"You sleep okay?" Mark asks.

"Not really. My neck hurts."

"There's Tylenol in the bathroom cabinet."

"Thanks."

There is a pause.

"I think people wanted to meet up..." he starts.

"I need a shower."

"You can use the one upstairs."

"I need to change."

"Oh."

"My stuff's at the hotel."

"Do you want to go back?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. I'll drive you."

"Thanks."

"Give me five minutes?"

"Sure."

"Cool. I just have to go feed the chickens and tell Randi where we're going."

A quarter of an hour later they are waiting in a Starbucks drive-through for Eduardo's order, the engine idling -- Mark now drives a Subaru Forrester-- listening to an actor recite the poems of Virgil in two languages. Eduardo is too distracted and queasy to enjoy his voice - an English purr smoother than the hum of the engine.

Mark does not want anything. He is drinking a Mountain Dew from a can, just like in college.

"Chris lets you have that?" he says, part curious, part annoyed.

Mark smirks as the car inches forward in the line.

Eduardo still does not understand this, about America. There is absolutely no one inside, but they are sitting here, ten cars deep, at the drive-through.

"Like he has any room to talk. He still drinks like eight Diet Cokes a day," Mark says.

They order Eduardo a doppio espresso in addition to a grande no-foam nonfat latte. The first he downs, feeling the pressure behind his temples start to ease almost instantly, the second he sips, cautiously, because Mark has a tendency to slam on the brakes at red lights.

The drive is quiet, uneventful. They don't talk much. There's nothing to say, really. Eduardo sort of wants to apologize, but he also doesn't want to relive the previous evening.

Even if the kissing was pretty incredible.

Being kissed back, by Mark, who felt like he wanted it too, he remembers, through the clearing haze of hangover.

 _Single._

They pull up to the hotel and Mark says, "If you still - I mean, we," and then starts again, "We're having brunch, if you want to come. If you have to pack and stuff, I understand."

He doesn't have much to pack, but he's not sure if he can be around Mark much longer.

"Who's _we?"_ he asks.

"Um, me and Randi and Dustin and Clare and Chris and Sean, Eldridge, and um," he stammers a little here, "Sean Parker, too, probably."

Eduardo unfastens his seatbelt and gets out of the car.

"Thanks for the ride," he says, before shutting the door. "I'll think about it."

"Okay." Mark says, and Eduardo walks into the lobby.

The room has been tidied, the bed made.

He doesn't really have much to pack, or to do.

He finishes his coffee and showers, does his morning yoga in his underwear, his feet suctioned to the travel mat.

He orders another coffee from room service and packs, and then sits on the bed and looks on Facebook and reads emails, thinking about the days and weeks and months ahead.

It will be a long road to November 6th.

He adds Clare and Randi as his friends. Randi's account is public, her page is mostly all Facebook related. Clare's page is private, but she accepts his request while he is still online and he looks at pictures of her, them, him -- drinking beer in a bowling alley; at the beach, Dustin's face covered with a towel; a party, the tops of people's heads only identifiable because someone has bothered to tag them. Sean is in some of them, but not all. He is not in the ones in a kitchen he now recognizes as Mark's. That seems to be a recurring theme. It appears Mark is learning how to cook.

Eduardo is engrossed in this detective work, trying to piece together a narrative from images and snippets of information, old statuses and conversations, when his phone rings with a 650 number.

It is Dustin, who asks if he is _coming out to brunch with them, and he hopes so, because they want to say goodbye and this place has awesome waffles, if Eduardo still likes those, and Chris will be there, too, does he know that, as well?_

Dustin always knows how to erode Eduardo's defenses, and it doesn't take long before he is agreeing to be picked up and then driven to the San Jose airport for his flight to Texas.

This time Clare is driving. Dustin puts his suitcase in the trunk. He is somehow not hungover at all.

"Ignore him," Clare says, squinting against the sunlight. She is wearing glasses and her eyes look red.

When they arrive everyone else is seated, waiting for them before ordering.

Sean is not there, however, which Eduardo learns when Clare asks Mark where he is.

"He had some stuff to do," Mark says.

Clare snorts, derisively.

"That's what she said."

Mark laughs.

Brunch is a blur, menus and coffee, plates being passed around. Dustin has ordered the waffles, which are sprinkled with bacon and are served with pieces of fried chicken.

Eduardo thinks this combination sounds vile, but it is actually not half bad.

Mark does not try any, since he does not eat chicken any more.

Everyone laughs at this.

He talks with Chris about political stuff, and his Sean about wine, the wedding, the merits of having a full open bar versus passed cocktails. Randi tells him about social media use amongst young Latinos, which is continually on the rise. On the other side of the table, Dustin and Mark are on about something computer-related. He's not sure, since the only words he understands are the conjunctions, not any of the content.

Clare is watching them, fondly, her hands cradling her mug.

She really does have gorgeous skin, and Eduardo lamely asks her what she uses on it.

"Argan oil," she says. "We can go to the Whole Foods and get you some, if you want. Do we have time?" she says, louder, across the table, and Mark and Dustin both look up.

"No, it's fine," he protests. "I can't even take it on the plane with me. How do you spell it?" he asks, pulling out his phone.

At that she makes him show her his pictures, which is unnerving, because unlike the solitary investigation he did earlier, alone in his hotel room, this is public, an invitation to pass the phone around and make comments, jokes. He hopes there's nothing pervy on there.

Chris and Sean want to know all about his trip to Napa with Peter, and Eduardo feels weird talking about it in front of Mark, which is ridiculous.

Mark does look kind of sad, though. Sullen. He gets up from the table and goes to the bathroom.

And Eduardo hates that the very first thought in his head is a vindictive _good_ and then _how can I fix it?_

But it is not his problem to fix. Mark is not his to fix.

Without Mark there, of course, Eduardo's own problems stand out all the more sharply, more clearly.

Leaving takes forever, mostly because they are arguing over who is going to get the check. And then they make the waitress take a picture of them all.

Outside he says goodbye to people, some of whom he hugs.

He and Mark do not hug.

Mark still does not seem to like to be touched by other people, in general, and especially not in public.

Even though he seems softer, he is still prickly about that.

They all say goodbye.

Mark and Clare have a fencing lesson across town -- they are going to take Mark's car and meet Dustin later for dinner. There may be Mexican food. They are still undecided.

Randi and Chris are going to the office. Sean is going home, he has calls to make.

Eduardo is going to get on another plane and go somewhere.

But he is not running away, this time.

He is going somewhere, a lot of somewheres -- _to_ Houston and then _to_ New York and then _to_ Boston and then _to_ Tallahassee and then _to_ Chicago and then _to_ New York, again.

The preposition makes all the difference, he decides, and he feels expansive, after breakfast, and mentions _next time_ casually, and that feels okay.

The buffer of other people helps, as well. He cannot _be alone with Mark._ It makes him too unsettled; it makes him feel like he is being held underwater with all that closeness, all that proximity.

With other people there, it is not so bad.

He feels a little less like he is drowning.

Dustin drives him to the airport and talks a mile a minute.

He has never needed caffeine, he's just naturally like that. They talk about Asia, travel, music.

The ride to the airport is over before he knows it. Dustin drops him off in front of the terminal and waves him goodbye.

In another time, another place, he would have lost it, right then, and gone searching for a way to make himself disappear.

Now, he cannot be all self-indulgent, not really, since he has things to do, although _goddamn_ is he horny, even after jerking off once during his morning shower and once more after he looked at a bunch of online pictures, lying on the bed, on top of the covers.

However, he has places to be, and he cannot just drift from encounter to encounter and hope that will be sufficient, because it is not. The man on other side of the planet, his lover and friend, has helped with that.

Mark does not help, because being around Mark confuses him, now, as it always has.

He loves someone else, that is true, someone who is quite good to him, who he is meeting in New York next month.

Eduardo does go get very drunk, however, in the tiny airport bar. He has three vodkas in quick succession, and he falls asleep, thankfully, on the plane.

The next time he logs in to Facebook, he has been tagged in the brunch picture. In that picture, he looks pretty happy, halfway between Dustin (grinning) and Mark (tight-lipped scowl).

When he gets back to New York he makes a trip to the Chelsea Whole Foods and buys a bottle of cold-pressed argan oil. It smells like Brazil nuts, and it makes his skin gleam.


	7. New York II

In between Boston and Tallahassee he has arranged a layover in Washington, where he meets his sister and mother for dinner at one of Jose Andres' restaurants -- which is okay, but not exactly _destination dining_ \-- and there, over mojitos and fire-roasted salsa, he turns thirty.

His mother looks happy, less pinched around the eyes.

Eduardo knows that she is always a little lighter away from _him._

Bina seems fine. She wanted him to stay longer than just the one day, and is still sulky about that, petulant, pouting.

However, because it is his birthday, his mother does not try to guilt-trip him into visiting again, not too much, at least.

Eduardo loves his mother very much, truly, but he does not trust her one bit.

She will make up stories, and say things like, "your father misses you, too, Wardo," and he will glare at her from under his eyebrows, because he knows she is lying to his face.

In the past, when he has said things like _I don't want to_ she has countered with _not for him, do it for me, querido,_ and it makes him want to run out the door, or throw something, and say _why, so you can pretend you have a perfect fucking family, like you always did?_ and then the table will be quiet until his sister changes the subject.

There are reasons why Eduardo does not like to go back there, and he feels awful about it, but she is one of them, not just him.

He hates how spineless she always is, always was.

And Eduardo never minded, himself, getting pushed around, but not like that; not like her.

However, because it is Eduardo's birthday, they do not talk about any of that.

Bina's townhouse is cute. Georgetown is very pretty, leafy because it is spring.

He talks to Peter on the phone, after they eat cake (chocolate) and ice cream (vanilla bean) and they both say _I love you_ and Eduardo means it, he really does.

When they talk, sometimes, he can hear the years of difference between them -- fifteen years in age -- which should make him feel like a child, but don't, somehow, really.

Which is _odd,_ because he feels childish around Mark, who is just two months shy of being exactly two years his junior, but he does not feel that way with Peter.

Eduardo finds that he is thinking about both of them, a lot.

He sleeps on the couch, out in the open, in the living room. It's not really all that comfortable, and he has a hard time sleeping.

Openness makes him nervous. It always has. He worries that someone will sneak up behind him.

Eduardo likes to be able to sleep with one eye on the door.

The phone is never more than arm's reach away, so he goes on Facebook.

His page is filled with birthday wishes from all around the globe, which is pretty cool.

Facebook mobile loads slowly on his phone, so he cannot scroll through loads of pictures. He has a couple that he _may_ possibly have bookmarked.

One is of all of them at a Giants game, where Mark is wearing a baseball cap and everyone is drinking beer from plastic cups and he is smiling, because Dustin has bought a giant blue thumb that he is holding up to the camera with a shit-eating open-mouthed grin.

One is from Mark's archaeological tour of the site of ancient Troy, in modern-day Turkey, where he is standing, in profile, looking up at a crumbling wall with a look of intense concentration on his face.

The third one, the last one, is of Mark in his kitchen, eating an orange.

It is, naturally, the third one that Eduardo looks at the longest, after which he jerks off, under the covers. When he comes he turns his head to the side and bites his lip, hard, to stay quiet.

Eduardo learned early on, in his life, the value of keeping quiet.

After that he does, indeed, sleep.

The next month is blurry, in planes, in hotels, in meetings, on the streets.

Eduardo always has the news on, and a stack of papers to look at, and his computer open, waiting up for a Skype date with Peter.

He does not sleep around, any more. He does not let any other men fuck him, and he doesn't even hook up with women.

Eduardo is behaving himself, even though he does not really need to.

He whines about being horny to Peter, on the phone, who practically _talks_ him to orgasm, which Eduardo relishes.

Peter is obviously very _sexy,_ in that way that sure-fingered grey-haired dry-voiced Englishmen are.

He is not a pink-cheeked _child,_ who still, as it is all too clear from those beach pictures, has not sprouted any chest hair.

With Peter the distance is difficult, but it is not too horrible.

With Mark, the distance, the screen -- all of that helps.

It is easier to be with him in two dimensions rather than three, where every time he looks at Eduardo it feels almost exactly like tumbling over onto the ground from a swiftly delivered rasteira.

When he is in Arizona, Eduardo decides he will go to capoeira classes again, when he is back in the city.

He needs to work on his stability, his center of gravity, which is still not low enough to the ground.

Probably being on planes constantly doesn't help with that.

One of his many times on Facebook -- because what else does one do in a motel room in Dubuque or Fresno or Spokane, really? -- he looks at Christy Lee's profile and, almost on impulse, sends her a friend request.

Four days later she accepts, and then he sends her a message.

She writes back, and he asks if next time he is in New York he can take her out for lunch, maybe, at the Conde Nast building where she works?

They do have lunch, the next time he is in the city, and it is initially _super weird_ and then it is less weird, and then by the end of lunch she is telling him hilarious stories about dating in Manhattan and how it is a _total mindfuck_ but she's got this great sense of humor about things, and she's not buying into that _one true love Carrie Bradshaw hype bullshit._

After that, when he is in town, they meet up.

She is a _very good_ shopping partner, which he remembers, from the last time they were in New York, together, during that fucked-up trip followed by the first time Mark kissed him, in a too-cold upstairs bedroom at his parents' house, and then the first time he had sex with a guy, and the first time he let himself believe that Mark wouldn't need anything else, in his life, but him, but them.

He and Christy don't talk about that weekend, of course. That would be weird. They try things on and she buys makeup and shoes and he buys cashmere socks and eye cream and then they have dinner, or go have cocktails somewhere fun, or go dancing, which is great.

Christy laughs all the time now, and she is a loud drunk, but the fun kind, and she is a great person to be hungover with, the next morning, silently drinking coffee and passing the newspaper back and forth over dry bagels.

She meets Peter, when he visits, and arches a perfect eyebrow at Eduardo, mouthing, _so cute_ and Eduardo blushes, because she totally flirts with him, the way only straight girls and gay men can, with one another.

Peter stays with him, at the apartment, which is small, and cozy, and nice.

The first night is just the two of them.

As is the second night.

The third night Eduardo suggests that they go out, do what they have done before.

Instead of someone with dark hair, the boy they bring home has hair the color of dirty dishwater.

It is not quite the same, but, as in many things, it is close enough.

May, June, July. August all pass like this, blurry, growing hot.

Facebook reminds him of birthdays.

Mark has a birthday party in May, out back, by the pool. There are veggie burgers and vanilla cake -- Mark does not, he remembers, like chocolate. Sean is there, as are lots of people he does not know, probably Facebook people.

He sends emails, he talks to his boyfriend, who he spends one weekend with in the Hamptons, and one in London.

He likes London a lot, the style, the people, the river, the architecture.

They visit some historic sites, and eat at Jamie Oliver's place, see the Saatchi collection, and kiss, looking out over the Thames.

Eduardo is living a really good life.

He is still doing yoga, as well, though in when he is in New York he and Christy go to evening classes, because she does _not do mornings, thank you,_ and then after they sit somewhere air conditioned and drink coconut water, or smoothies, and sort of talk.

"It was just really shitty," she says, once, when they have veered close to the topic of Mark.

"Sorry?" he says.

"It just sucked, you know, to be the third wheel between you two," she tells him.

And he knows he hurt her, a whole bunch, and he has been trying to find a way to deal with that, in his own deeply masochistic way, and he wishes he could go back, change it, fix it.

"I'm sorry," he says, again.

And then they change the subject.

Over cocktails, though, he ends up spilling his guts to her, when she asks him if he ever told Mark how he felt and he shouts _no_ and she shouts back _did he?_ and he yells _no_ and she says _you guys are pathetic_ and he says _what? it's not pathetic_ and she says _i said tragic, you dumbass_ and then they go dance, and because there is nothing between them, they can be as close as they like, on the dance floor.

Christy is a good salsa partner.

He is traveling a lot, and his laptop is almost always open, and that is nice, because when he has insomnia, or too much to do to really sleep, someone, across the world or two time zones over will be awake, bored, chatty.

It really helps him feel less lonely.

Although he does not like the predictions it is making about him, or his lifestyle choices, or things he might want to buy.

Those algorithms are still frightening; they feel invasive.

He wonders how it is that Mark cannot believe in privacy.

When he is in New York he sees Christy, sees Chris and his Sean.

Chris is always at the office, so Eduardo is always at the office.

But he goes stir-crazy, because it is _hot_ and he needs to think, so he drags Eduardo down to the Starbucks and gets an iced coffee with skim milk and four packets of Splenda -- which, even with his Brazilian-raised sweet tooth Eduardo wants to retch at the sight of, and how he would never think to defile the Italian Roast that he is drinking hot, with cane sugar, like that.

Chris likes to _walk and talk_ so they do that, around Soho, and what's left of Little Italy, and Chelsea, or down Spring Street.

He does not have a driver in Manhattan, so he walks most places, and when he walks by himself he thinks.

When he is with Chris they go get Tasti D-lite, which is foul, and when he is with Christy they go to Ciao Bella and get roasted butter pecan gelato, which is a million times better.

Christy walks more slowly than Chris does, in part because she always wears giant wedge heels, and she shuffles, and she likes to look in store windows.

It is when they are standing in front of the Marc Jacobs store in June that he says, "I'm really sorry about everything, babe."

She sticks her spoon back into her cup and looks over at him.

"I know, hon," she says.

There is a long pause, which neither of them fill, and she says, "Do you think I could pull that off?" pointing at something far too short for the office and he takes half a step back to scope out her butt, in that flirty way that he can, now, and says, "Totally."

She buys it, and he gets some more sunglasses.

Which he has to wear, in Florida (likely a lost cause) and Texas (definitely a lost cause) and Arizona (even more so a lost cause) and New Mexico (so small) and Colorado (military families) and Nevada (bleak) and Oklahoma (religious) and California (more diverse than people think.)

He makes three trips to Florida, though he does not tell his mother.

He makes two trips to California, and there he does let people know.

They pick him up from the airport, all of them, in the Prius, and they go to Dustin and Clare's house, because they trade off, on Fridays, and he was right, Mark is getting cooking lessons, so from the house they go to Whole Foods and get stuff for dinner, which they make over a bottle of Cava and then one of Beaujolais and then one of Cab Sav.

They get pretty drunk, so everyone sleeps over.

Eduardo gets a guest bedroom, Mark takes the couch.

When he goes downstairs at four in the morning to get a glass of water Mark is asleep, with the television on.

He turns the tv off, with the remote, and looks down at his sleeping face for a second, and then he goes back to bed, where he does not sleep well.

Mark still confuses him, as he always has.

The second time there, when they are at Mark's house, Clare is not drinking because she is on antibiotics, and Dustin is not drinking either, for purposes of _solidarity_ and so he and Mark drink all of the wine, and since Clare and Dustin are sober, they decide to drive home.

"Do you want a ride?" Clare asks.

"I'll call a cab," Wardo answers, wondering if this will be the case.

What he really should not do is be drunk, alone, with Mark.

But God, he wants to be drunk, alone, with Mark.

They leave them alone, and it gets weird, so they watch something, like before.

"I never told you happy birthday," says Mark. "How does it feel to be thirty?"

"It feels about the same," Eduardo says, and this is true.

Mark picks at the label of the wine bottle with his thumbnail.

"You seem good," Mark says, after a pause.

"Yeah," Eduardo says, eyes fixed on the screen.

They watch the rest of the movie in silence.

When it is over Mark stands up and says, "I think I should go to bed now," and Eduardo says, "Sure, okay."

"I should call you a taxi," Mark says, turning to go.

Eduardo cannot stop his hand from reaching out, touching Mark's shoulder, stopping him from leaving.

"Not yet," he says, "please."

Mark _looks_ at him, his eyes glazed, his teeth turned purple from wine and he says, in the most _broken_ voice he has ever heard, _"Wardo,"_ and Eduardo feels that way again, with Mark, here, in three dimensions, whose neck feels almost exactly the same when he pushes his hand up into Mark's hair, whose mouth feels almost exactly the same as it did a decade ago, though he no longer tastes like candy he is still as addictive as sugar.

Mark kisses him back, and his stomach goes tight and he can feel himself sigh, just melt against Mark's neck and hands on his hips that should be pulling are _pushing_ and Mark is saying, his body still close to Eduardo's his forehead nudging Eduardo's _"You should go,"_ and then walking away, into the kitchen to call that taxi, and staying in the kitchen until it arrives honking, ten minutes later.

Eduardo leaves without saying goodbye.

He sees his mother and sister, again, this time in New York, when they both come visit. The two of them stay in a hotel, and Christy takes them out shopping and then they all meet for dinner.

Christy gets along with his sister and his mother, and she makes dinner much more enjoyable, because she is extroverted, and she excels at drawing people out.

It's really nice having her around. He is glad that they are friends, now, which he tells her on a Saturday night when she is crampy and he is exhausted and they decide to stay in and watch stupid reality television, which they both secretly love, and eat popcorn and chocolate deli cake and drink two bottles of red wine.

She sticks her bare feet into his lap and says, "Me too, baby."

And then they watch another _Real Housewives_ episode and then he tells her about kissing Mark, and being confused, and he hopes its okay that he can tell her this, if it's not weird?

"It's weird," she says, "but whatever."

He is asking his _ex-girlfriend_ what he should do about his _boyfriend_ and this _other person_ who is still unnerving to him.

"How was the sex?" she asks, with a frankness that astonishes him.

He splutters and stammers and then he tells her that it was _intense_ and she nods, knowingly, and they don't talk about it anymore, for a few weeks.

That doesn't mean that he doesn't think about it.

He thinks about it probably more than he should, alone in his Soho apartment or a mid-priced hotel room bed. He could pay for an upgrade, somewhere nicer, but he doesn't want to call attention to having _money money money_ in general. It looks bad; flashy.

He dresses more casually, too. He owns _khakis,_ now, which he has not worn in years and polo shirts, and he thinks about getting a pair of tennis shoes, but he's not sure if that's too much.

He goes out, talks to people, works with people.

Alone he thinks about _the sex_ and what that stands for.

Whether it is physical, or physiological, or psychological, or some combination thereof.

Or whether it is something ineffable, passing, fleeting.

Eduardo is not _slutty,_ precisely -- well, maybe a little bit slutty-- but he knows that you can have very good sex with many different people.

That was part of what happened after college.

In high school, growing up, he was never really like that. He was pretty good -- just making out, not fucking around, and if he did drugs or whatever it was just because he realized that a bump was a great study aid.

He got into Harvard after all, and it was not because of anyone's connections.

Eduardo has never doubted the quality of his mind.

His mind, after all, has always been a big part of the problem, which he has spent too long trying to still.

So after college, when he traveled the world, that was the first time he ever hooked up with people, strangers, men, or girls.

In college he didn't fuck around, either.

There are different kinds of connections, between people, as well, which he has also come to understand a little better.

And he sees couples, people who are good together, some of whom he understands, and some of whom he just doesn't, but he also comes to see that it's not his business to make sense of other people's relationships.

Whatever works for them.

In September he flies to the Bay Area for a wedding in Carmel.

There is a reception the night before at the Monterey Aquarium, with caviar and new potatoes and wines from Sonoma. The place is dark but the giant tanks are backlit with blue, swimming with brightly colored fish.

He wanders off, and Peter comes to find him by the shark tank.

"What are you thinking about?" he asks, because Eduardo is off in his own head.

"Nothing," he says.

They dance and it is lovely.

Everyone in the wedding party shows up later, after the wedding rehearsal and the rehearsal dinner, flushed with wine and excitement.

Clare and Dustin do not drink anything, once again, and Clare's roots are dark, like she has maybe stopped dyeing her hair.

Eduardo does not like to ask, because it is not polite, but when he sees Dustin he claps him on the back, harder than usual, and pulls him into a sideways hug.

Dustin giggles.

Then he is introducing Peter to them, and he worries that when he shakes Mark's hand the world will end, or something.

The world, of course, does not end.

It's just a handshake.

Not the end of the world.

Then various other people come and go, and Chris and Sean come over, and he can see Other Sean but he does not talk to him, though other people do.

He leaves Peter deep in conversation with Chris and Randi and he and Sean go for more drinks, and when they come back he and Peter go dance.

The night is a happy blur.

The wedding is outside, the next afternoon, with the beach nearby.

It's gorgeous, and the women in the wedding party are wearing blue and white seersucker dresses and the guys look so preppy, in club coats, and it's super cute.

They have written their own vows, which Eduardo only sort of pays attention to.

The reception is in a tent and historic home.

He dances with a lot of people, including Mark, which is still very sad and slow, and strange.

This is the most they have touched since college.

He is once again, very dizzy, even though they are not spinning or dancing fast.

He would like to kiss Mark, again, and he thinks he might be on the brink of doing so when Peter comes over, taps Mark on the shoulder and he leaves.

Eduardo puts his arms around Peter's neck, leans into him.

"He's cute," Peter says, scoping out Mark's shoulders in that jacket.

"I guess," says Eduardo.

Chris and Sean leave in the morning for Santa Barbara, where they are spending a long weekend. They will take a real honeymoon, to Fiji, after the elections.

Sean is very patient with Chris between September and November, but Eduardo is not. They fight, sometimes, when they are both tired and have been living off dried fruit and trail mix and shitty Chinese takeout five days in a row.

Everything is very close, too close to call. Polls are all over, opinion swings all over the place. They are watching the numbers very closely.

October is spent on the road, almost continually, and by the end of the month Eduardo thinks his eyeballs may fall out from exhaustion.

He falls asleep with his clothes still on, many nights.

He drinks way too much coffee, and he is not on the internet very much, because there is always another meeting, or call, or donor, or group, or report, or presentation, or something to do.

Eduardo gets a phone call from his mother, who wants him to come down for his father's birthday.

He tells her that he cannot come visit until after the election, which is true, because he will be too busy. He also does not want to talk politics with his father, because that will just piss him off, and then his mother will be angry, but won't say anything, just lock herself in the bathroom and cry for an hour.

He tells her that he will come down for Thanksgiving, again, but only if he can bring someone.

He does not yet tell her that they will be staying in a hotel.

Eduardo does not want to stay with them, under any circumstances.

He wants Peter to meet his sister, though.

He wants that to be okay.

Maybe even more than Mark, he wants her approval.

More than a little fucked up.

 _Close as twins,_ his mother will say, and she will be right, sort of.

They are on the West Coast, in the Facebook offices, when they call the election.

They have the map up on the giant screens, and they are watching states go red and go blue, and when California goes blue everyone cheers.

Everyone gets absolutely plastered, shit-faced drunk, except for Clare and Dustin, who tell the room what everyone had already guessed, that they are going to have a baby.

There is a lot of drunken kissing and hugging and relief, all around.

Everyone is smiling.

When he sees Mark leave, Eduardo follows him, into the bathroom, where they once kissed, many years ago.

They are both drunk, and both tired, and it is so easy to kiss, to full-on _make out_ in a bathroom stall and Eduardo has Mark backed up against the divider wall, and Mark is like, _whimpering_ and his voice is shaking as is his head, and he says, "I can't -- Wardo, I can't keep doing this. _You_ can't keep doing this," and he is angry that Mark does not want to kiss him anymore, like Mark has all this fucking _self-control_ all of a sudden and he is suddenly, very tired, and drunk, and, fuck it, really fucking _angry._

"You don't get to tell me what to do," he says, not pulling out of Mark's space. "You fucking _don't,"_ and Mark looks _scared_ and he says, "I know I don't."

"Good," Eduardo says, and stalks out of the bathroom.

He finds Chris and Sean and they do a bunch of tequila shots, like they are twenty years old, although he knows, from experience now, that the hangovers do get _worse and worse_ as you age, and when he wakes up, in a hotel room filled with more empty bottles, he suddenly feels lonely again.

He flies back east, sleeps in his own bed. There is still plenty to do at the office, but he isn't all over the country any more, so he can take breaks, go out more. He waits with Christy while she gets a pedicure and he looks at L'Uomo, trying to decide if he could pull off that whole European 'sweater tied around the neck' thing, and suspects that he, on the whole, could not.

Over Pinkberry she says, "Wardo, seriously, you cannot keep fucking with his head like that."

At that he recoils, because deep down, he is still harboring this secret idea that _it was all Mark's fault,_ and stringing him along like this, well, _so fucking what?_ he wants to say, _he did the same fucking thing to me._

Although he can see that she has a point.

Before he flies down to Miami they go out to the W hotel and drink martinis, like old times. She is wearing the dress they got at Marc Jacobs, and she looks _fantastic._

"You clean up pretty good, too," she says, and they clink glasses.

Two martinis later she is talking _at_ him with that drunk sincerity particular to beautiful women, and she says, grabbing his arm, "You need to nut up or leave him alone, Wardo, it's not doing either of you any favors," and he is exasperated and shakes his head. She is unrelenting and he is unresponsive.

She changes the subject, but not before adding, "If you're done with yours, want to pass him my way, then?"

"I'm not sure he'd be entirely into that," he teases back.

"I could turn him," she says, squinting at her empty glass.

 _Honestly?_

"You probably could," he says, and flags the bartender for two more drinks.

She falls asleep on his shoulder, in the taxi back to hers.

This happens at least twice a month, it has since June.

It makes him very happy, in a new way, a way that is not about mutual profit, or advantage, or sex, or manipulation, or bourgeois reciprocity, even the myth of mutual happiness.

He just likes the way her head feels, on his shoulder, and how at the end of a long night her hair goes a little flat on top, and she mumbles random things when the cab driver hits the brakes.

The taxi waits while he brings her upstairs, leaving her clothed in the bed, on top of the covers, with water and two Advil on the bedstand.

The room spins when he lies down, and he is excited to see Peter, but he is dreading it, all the same.

They stay in a hotel, on the beach, and take walks, and go dancing, and Peter meets his sister, who does, as he hoped, like him.

His mother likes his impeccable manners.

His father is gruff, unresponsive, when they go out to dinner on Thanksgiving, a break with tradition.

Eduardo knows this is because his father would be embarrassed beyond belief for his son to bring _a man_ to dinner at the Garcia's.

No one else seems to care except for him, actually.

So that is good, and Peter is charming, and he and Eduardo walk on the beach and they talk.

There are plans being made for the holidays, and then when is Eduardo coming back to Hong Kong?

"I want to stay through the inauguration," he says, and Peter says, "but after that? It'll have been a year, right? We said a year."

And Eduardo feels sad, but not so sad, and he says, as they look out over the Atlantic, "I think I need some more time."

Peter is not, on the whole, the jealous type, but he does ask if there is someone else.

Eduardo tells him _no,_ because really, there is not.

However, that does not prevent him from changing his relationship status almost immediately, to _single._

December comes and goes. He sees his mother, his sister, in Washington, again. His father once again, does not come with them.

Chris is still insanely busy, he wants to know if Eduardo is planning on sticking around.

He has not yet decided.

Over wine and braised short ribs at Prune he is talking about _Mark this_ and _Mark that,_ and Christy tells him he is being a Facebook stalker, and when he asks how he knows she says, "Wardo, please, I _pioneered_ that shit."

Everyone meets in Washington, for the inauguration. Christy is his date, which is, as always, a blast.

Clare is seven months pregnant, she looks amazing.

Dustin is super happy, proud.

Mark is how he always is, he is just himself. He is wearing a tie, and he does not look happy about it at all.

And it is during an inaugural ball, a party that the fucking President is at, and he, Eduardo Saverin, is _shaking the hand of the President of the United States of America_ and he feels proud of himself, and his friends, and he is maybe, now, ready.

He goes to find Mark, once again.

"Okay," he says. "Let's try."


	8. California

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please DO NOT READ THIS if you need a OTP/happy ending/perfect tidy resolution, okay? YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

He goes to California, and stays in Mark's San Francisco apartment.

It starts out amazing.

There is so much build, so much anticipation.

Mark insists that they _do things right,_ and he takes Eduardo out to dinner, on dates, and they do not fall into bed together immediately.

When it finally does happen, after a month and a half, they have had wine, but Mark insists that they both be sober, so that they know what they are doing, so that they are both sure.

Then he stays at Mark's house, and they do not leave the bedroom for four whole days.

The sex is, as he remembered it, so intense it makes him cry, after, with more than just pleasure, so much more than that.

There is the sneaking suspicion, later confirmed, that Mark has been _single_ all these years because he was waiting for Eduardo, saving himself for Eduardo.

Which is a little scary, a little overwhelming.

But also, truth be told, really fucking hot.

It is all so _intense._

For that time when they start trying to learn one another again, Eduardo feels uncomfortable.

He is jumpy, twitchy.

Mark is on edge, around him.

And so intense.

 _So intense._

And for that little blip of time, it's great, really, in some ways better than great.

He feels twenty, again, in a lot of ways.

The pull of Mark is really, still, as always, so strong.

For Eduardo, Mark has always been like the moon, pulling the tides of his blood in that direction.

The pull that goes beyond _love,_ really, and swings over into something else, something darker. Scarier.

He takes _everything._ Just sitting next to him, here, finally, in three dimensions rather than two, in the flesh rather than the pictures in his head, the pictures on a screen, and Mark -- impatient, impetuous, incredibly intense Mark -- is being so, so _nice._

When they finally do it, finally, on a Thursday evening, in Mark's bed, and Mark is saying all these things he has wanted to hear for so fucking long, the _sorry_ and the _love_ and the _please_ and his _name,_ over and over again, he thinks that he is getting absolutely everything he wanted, only a decade too late.

When he cries afterward, pretty much exactly the same kind of crying he could never do before -- unless someone forced it out of him -- it is with relief.

Huge, snotty, disgusting _waves_ of relief.

And just like that, he can feel the tide start to turn.

The twenty-year-old in him feels at home. The twenty year old he once was has heard exactly, precisely, perfectly, what he needed to hear.

*

Then they have a lot of sex, which is equally emotional.

Mark is more patient, much more patient.

 _Not great,_ it must be said.

He's plenty enthusiastic, which is not different.

Then they leave the bedroom, and go out, into Mark's giant beige house, where Mark walks around barefoot, in his underwear, and drinks milk from the container.

He stays over at Mark's place, after that.

Mark takes some time off work, to be with him.

That is _totally_ different.

He buys some deck shoes. He will not wear flip-flops, and he will not wear tennis shoes.

Mark is always barefoot, or in his socks.

Mark _never_ picks up after himself.

Mark likes to play _video games_ , which Eduardo still cannot stand.

Mark does not read books, which is still, to him, so strange.

And the sex continues to be good, and he likes Mark's friends, who come over for Friday dinners, which Dustin refers to as "family time," but he is still not sure, generally speaking, about California.

It is still too open.

There is too much sky.

Dustin is planning his upcoming paternity leave, though, and Mark says he's owed vacation time, so they hang out at the house, and go and do stuff in the area.

Mark has somehow become fond of doing things _outside._

He owns _hiking boots._

And a _Frisbee._

His yard is full of _chicken droppings._

He wears _baseball caps._

For all that his shoulders are a little broader, and his demeanor is better, with his skinny legs, his weird sense of humor, and his video games, Mark Zuckerberg is still, very much, a _boy._

And yet not, when Clare goes into labor and Mark drives them both to the hospital with white-knuckled hands.

When he is the one pacing up and down the hallway, chewing on his thumbnails.

When he smiles so wide at the news that _they're both fine, both of them_ and he and Dustin hug, and then they all go in to see her, and Mark's eyes go really wide, and he looks really incredibly happy.

Even before he knows -- he just _knows._

That Mark has become a man, somewhere along the way, without him, and he, too, has grown into someone else.

That they share the same bedrock, and the same foundations.

As before, they are intertwined, like the roots of a tree.

And here Eduardo starts to reconsider.

Here is when he starts to realize, just that, just this.

Ten years is not so long, in the span of the universe, or even human history.

But in personal history?

Ten years is a very long time, indeed.

It burns like lava, pouring up from the earth.

It is hot, of course, like salsa, like samba.

Maybe too hot, too much.

And once quenched, once gone, it calcifies, hardens.

In the hospital, bleary, red-eyed, exhausted, on edge, he sees, more than ever.

That he has fallen out of love, with Mark Zuckerberg.

Or, to put it more accurately, he has indeed _grown out_ of it, like a suit jacket that no longer fits quite right.

*

The baby is a ginger, so Dustin is very happy.

They name him Max, after Clare's father, who teaches Art History at the University of Vermont in Burlington, and has a beard and very kind eyes.

Clare is half-Jewish, but the wrong way around, with an Irish Catholic mother, Sheila, so they have a combination bris and baptism, which is a hybrid, "just like us!" Dustin says.

Mark is the baby's godfather, just to add to the confusion.

In a sunny backyard in March, Mark is holding a tiny red-haired baby bundled up baby, and smiling down at him, and he looks happy.

Mark looks so ridiculously proud that Eduardo honestly thinks he might cry.

Because Mark will be a very good parent.

He will be _such_ a good father.

And Eduardo, while he could try, just, doesn't want to.

He's tired of taking care of people -- his mother, his sister. Mark, once.

So fucking _tired_ of that.

And he refuses to be like his own parents, who left their children alone, to be raised by nannies or to raise themselves, and then ripped them apart for being _too close._

Eduardo does not want to be a father like his own father.

He doesn't even want to try.

And Mark should get the chance, to try.

Eduardo suddenly, now, has _vision_.

Now he can see.

That if he is with Eduardo, now, the roles will flip.

Whatever he wants, Mark will do.

Mark will become the man Eduardo wants, because he wants Eduardo.

If that is what Eduardo wants, he knows, that Mark will wear shirts with collars, and go to fancy restaurants, and on nice vacations, and they will grow old, together, just the two of them, peacefully, quietly.

Mark will try to make himself fit Eduardo's clothes, whatever he picks out.

He knows this is wrong, deeply wrong.

And just like that, Eduardo realizes that he has fallen out of love.

That Mark is still the most impossibly beautiful person he has ever seen, in his life.

That Mark makes him feel things that no one else ever has, like his veins are filled with shards of gravel, and that is amazing, and intense, and dangerous.

But Mark is not the person he wants to get old with, or have children with.

He just _isn't._

That next night he watches Mark sleep, as he did so many nights back in Kirkland, when he wanted nothing more than for him to say, as he did tonight, murmuring into his chest just before he fell asleep, "I love you so much, Wardo."

He wriggles away when Mark is asleep to go stand by the pool and stare at it, chewing on his lip.

He does not have any cigarettes to smoke.

 _No one_ in California smokes.

They are all healthy, with their hybrid cars and tempeh patties and farmer's markets.

It is pretty, of course, all blue skies, and orange trees, and sunshine.

Eduardo still misses the city, though, any, every city.

(He is perhaps, at heart, a capitalist, more than he will ever admit to himself.)

Christy answers the phone sleepy, raspy, when he tries to call.

It is after three o'clock in the morning and he can hear her, coughing, and then saying, "What is it, baby boy?"

He really doesn't know what to say.

"Nothing," he says, "But I think I might be coming back."

There is a pause, where neither of them say anything, and then he blurts out, "I'll call you when I'm there, okay? Sorry to wake you up."

He hangs up, and turns the phone off.

In bed next to Mark, looking at Mark's chest rise and fall, it takes him a long time to fall asleep.

He thinks about tons of things, lying in the darkness, listening to Mark breathe.

He thinks about cities, and what those mean, and how they tell stories, just like the layers of the earth tell stories.

San Francisco is just a town, masquerading as a city, a Gold Rush town playing dress-up.

He thinks about transactions, and self-interest, and all the other ways he can explain, to himself, justify, to himself, to Mark, what they can't do.

Needless to say, he doesn't sleep very well.

*

Eduardo wears his new deck shoes out to breakfast, but he is still not sold, really, on California.

And California, he has now seen, has been very, _very_ good for Mark.

He doesn't care so much, about impressing people. He seems so much less _angry._

In the slope of his shoulders and the set of his mouth, he can see, very clearly, why Mark likes California. The billionaires wear tennis shoes, in California. People say what they mean, directly. The rules are the same, but the game of capital is played differently, here.

Eduardo is glad of this. Statistically, Eduardo knows that it is ridiculous to believe in _The One._

He and Christy have talked about this, because she does not buy into it, really, either.

Statistically, Eduardo knows, if there was just _one single person_ for everyone, then the likelihood would be of them being one of the millions of people in the Chinese provinces, or the slums of Rio, Mumbai, Mexico City, Johannesburg.

Not the person you meet at a fraternity mixer your sophomore year.

With many people there is potential, there is possibility, to make them into a person you can love.

Every person, more or less.

Sometimes you get lucky, and the spark is strong, and the pull is magnetic, and statistics be damned, they make your blood foam like the ocean, Atlantic or Pacific, it doesn't matter.

But Eduardo is not twenty, any more.

And though Mark has grown up, as a person, he is still a boy, in many ways.

Eduardo will always love Mark Zuckerberg. 

This is what he tells him, two days after the ceremony, when they are facing one another on the couch and he doesn't know how to say the things he has to say without sounding like an asshole of the highest order.

A deeply shallow asshole.

And Mark, who has been there, all this time, waiting for Eduardo to forgive him, to come back, to _deserve Eduardo's love_ \-- Mark _cries,_ and Eduardo is so scared, and so shocked, that he almost reneges, and thinks about saying _Never mind, forget it, ignore that_ and staying for years and years, staying for forever, for the rest of his life, just never to see him cry, ever again.

But that is not possible, and that is not how things work.

So this time, flying back east, now _he_ feels like the asshole.

And in a lot of ways, he is.

*

In Manhattan Chris is sort of pissed, but not as much as he could be.

Eduardo keeps working for him, part-time, but he accepts a place at Columbia, in the fall of 2013, for a combined master's in international finance and development.

He does not call Mark, or Peter, or anyone, all that summer.

On summer weekends he and Christy go to the Hamptons, and they tan like crazy.

He talks to a life coach-slash-career counselor, and he starts to think about things more concretely than he has, in the past.

He works with Jumo part-time when school starts, and he and Chris will go out, meet up for coffee, each with their own stack of stuff to do, and it will feel like college, and it will feel exhilarating, but the stakes will be different.

The midterms elections are going to be, as Peter would have said, _a pisser._

Eduardo misses him, and he calls him from Miami in Thanksgiving to tell him this.

They meet for New Year's, this time in Manhattan, where, over smoked salmon on brioche toast Eduardo tells him that he loves him, misses him, and wants him back, in his life.

(If it had not been for Facebook, Eduardo would have certainly tried them both at once.)

Eduardo feels incredibly guilty, still, about the huge carbon footprint that their relationship has left, on the planet, so Peter puts in for a transfer. He comes to Manhattan, and they buy a place, on the Upper West Side.

He goes to the shareholders meeting in 2014, but they speak only stiffly, and Mark still looks lonely.

He nods at Sean Parker, who nods back, but they don't talk.

Back in the city Sean helps them pick out countertops, and Christy gifts them with an air plant, and they have a party, in the summer of 2014, when, Facebook tells him, Mark goes on an archaeological dig with the Berkeley Extension campus to the Middle East, to study the spread of early Christianity throughout the Levant.

After the summer of 2014, Mark's Facebook status changes to _In a relationship._

Eduardo meets him, at the baptism for Dustin and Clare's second baby, in February of 2015, a girl who they name Whedon.

Chris and Sean are her godparents, and they want to buy her everything pink and Clare says _so much for breaking down gender roles, there, guys_ and Mark is there with the person who changed his Facebook status.

His name is Hassan and he is from Dearborn, Michigan.

His family are Lebanese Christians and he is a doctoral student at Berkeley, in the Department of Near Eastern Studies and he has, possibly, the longest eyelashes Eduardo has ever seen, on another person, girls included.

Mark looks happy, and Eduardo feels this weird twinge, inside, that he is not the one making Mark happy, but he also feels okay about it.

There are children at the party, and Eduardo loves to interact with kids, but he is damn well sure he doesn't want any of his own.

He could say it was the fear of fucking up his kids the ways his parents fucked him up, fucked his sister up.

Eduardo does, after his father dies, in the fall of 2015, talk to someone.

It is not like the movies, where there is a frantic phone call and a rush to someone's bedside, where heartfelt words are exchanged.

His mother calls, crying, and he knows, right away.

The funeral is very formal, very full.

And Eduardo gets so sad, for so long.

It is hard to believe.

That even though he really did hate his father, in many ways, he always expected that he would be there, be around to hate.

And now that is not so.

So he finds someone, in Manhattan, by Columbia, and they do a lot of deep childhood work and Eduardo is gladder, than ever, that he is not going to have any kids.

He takes ten million dollars of his own money and he sets up a foundation, not in his name, but in his father's, to provide scholarships to Latino children to study math, and science, and be the first in their families to go to college.

He sees his sister, and mother, but he always stays in a hotel, where he can close the door behind him.

When it gets hot they go to the Hamptons, on the weekends, with Christy, and if she is seeing someone, whoever she is seeing, and if not, with one of her many girlfriends.

Sometimes Sean and Chris come.

They go out, hang out, in sixes and fours and twos, and Eduardo does well in school, and does yoga and capoiera and goes salsa dancing with Christy and out to dinner with Peter, and everything is pretty good, pretty solid.

Christy's work sends her to Paris and she takes Eduardo with her to all the fashion shows and they smoke Galouises, again, and drink way too much wine and eat way too many pastries, and he is so glad.

To be grown-up, and wealthy, and not responsible for anyone, really, but himself.

Clare and Dustin have another baby, which is born after the 2016 elections, which Eduardo helps with as much as he can, but still goes to the Republicans.

He finishes his joint degree, and he accepts a job offer at YouGov, in Palo Alto.

There are still numbers, but this time, they mean something.

Peter quits the bank and sets himself up as a consultant, which is a sweet gig.

Eduardo drives into Silicon Valley from their house, which is huge and architecturally important and has a giant reflecting pool, around which they have another party, in the summer of 2017, when Eduardo has just turned thirty-five -- a birthday he spent in Cabo -- and Mark is thirty-three, and this time Eduardo and Peter are the godparents, which is why they are having the party at their place, for the twins, Finn (boy) and Riley (girl) and there is the smell of woodsmoke in the air, and many many people, and many years of history between them, between all of them.

So this is what Eduardo learns.

That, if you are patient, the loves you have had in your life will accrete, around you, like the sediment of silt and rock that makes up the striated layers of the earth.

That there are many ways people can hurt one another, whether through actions or words, or things that remain unsaid.

That, if you are lucky, you will get to a place when you stop running away, people will surprise you, and they will come back, eventually, even though you have hurt one another.

That you carry them like a pathogen, in your system, like a virus -- those people who infect you at different points in your life.

But that with time your body grows accustomed to having them around.

And the physical and physiological and psychological drops away.

And then they are just your friend, once more, your dorky, ridiculous, smart-ass friend who will come across your lawn, where he is wearing horrible flip-flops, and you yourself are wearing the J Crew equivalent, because it is okay to be casual, now, and he will hand you a cup of punch, or sangria, or eggnog, whatever the holiday, whatever the occasion, and that, in and of itself, will feel like the happiest ending possible.

Eduardo and Mark will stand next to one another, and drink whatever from their cups, and Mark will smile and say, "See, Wardo, I _told_ you that you would like California."

And Mark, this time, many years later, will be right.

 

 


End file.
